


Falling in Love is Hard on the Knees

by orderlychaos



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Phil Coulson, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Get Together, M/M, Pining, Pre-Avengers (2012), SHIELD agents - Freeform, Slow Build, action movie violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-10 16:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 65,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orderlychaos/pseuds/orderlychaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton first met Phil Coulson minutes after he'd literally fallen through a warehouse roof in Estonia and really, that set the tone for their whole relationship; a relationship that over the years would grow to include friendship, respect, smartass comments, a redheaded assassin, slightly terrifying conversations with Nick Fury and a whole lot of pining.</p><p>Falling in love really isn't easy for SHIELD agents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 2002

**Author's Note:**

> To start with, I want to say a huge THANK YOU to Henry and grydo2life for their help and cheerleading with this and to all of Feelschat who read this and commented and cheered and was generally just awesome :) And to Daz for giving me brilliant ideas. <3 you all.
> 
> The working title for this was Sassy!Phil, so I can only hope that it comes across in the finish version ;)
> 
> The fic is pretty long all together, so I'm going to post it by the year and hopefully it should all be up and finished soon!
> 
> Edit: I forgot to mention, the title of this was taken from an Aerosmith song :)

**P** **ä** **rnu, Estonia, 2002**

The mission was officially FUBAR.

He was calling it.

Agent Phil Coulson felt the slice of a bullet cut close enough that he could feel the heat of it on his cheek.  Instinctively, he ducked down behind a nearby parked car and resisted the urge curse creatively in Estonian as he fired back at the thugs chasing him.  “Simple recon mission, my _ass_ ,” he muttered to himself as he hunkered down behind the car and calmly checked how many bullets he had left in his clip.

This was not how he’d anticipated his first mission as operational control to have gone; Phil would have liked to believe his organizational skills were better than unmitigated failure.  At least Director Fury couldn’t take his recent promotion to level six away from him.  Probably.  If he tried, Phil could always threaten to quit again and stick Fury with all the paperwork.  Fury _hated_ paperwork.  Who knew, it might be nice to actually live a life where no one shot at him on a regular basis and FUBAR missions didn’t require him to pull a miraculous solution out of his ass when his only resources were his 9mm, a malfunctioning earpiece and the power of his frustration.

“This is Agent Coulson,” he said calmly into his comm again and resisted the urge to curse aloud because he was a professional, damn it.  “Does anyone copy?”

The comm in his ear gave an irritated hiss, but Phil couldn’t hear any voices in between the bursts of static.  He refused to let his mind dwell on what that probably meant and instead risked a glance over the boot of the car to check on the location of the two thugs chasing him.  He bit back another litany of Estonian curses as he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and picked up the faint sound of a scuffed footstep as one of the thugs tried to sneak up on his position.  When Phil was done with this mission, he was going to find out who was responsible for the shitty Intel and smack their heads together.  Screw Fury’s rules about not terrorizing the analysts.

When Phil heard a second scuffed footstep, this one a lot closer, he dropped to his stomach and ignored the new dirt on his already ruined suit.  He grinned a little when he peered underneath the car and saw the legs of one of the thugs on the other side.  Ruthlessly, Phil shot out the thug’s ankle, before following it a shot to the head when the thug dropped with a shout of pain.  Rolling fluidly to his feet, Phil pivoted and shot the second thug sneaking up on his left.  His heart pounding with the flood of adrenaline, he scanned the late night shadows around him in case any other thugs were going to leap out and attempt to shoot him in the ass, but he appeared to be safe for now.  With a last glance around him, Phil tried to recall the street maps he’d studied as part of the mission briefing and started heading west.

Phil doubted there was anything salvageable from the operations center after the smugglers they’d been sent to watch had attacked.  The smugglers had known exactly where SHIELD was and why they’d been there, which Phil would be cursing about if he hadn’t been so busy trying to find the rest of his team.  At least from the remains of their surveillance post, Phil would be able to track where the smugglers had taken Agent Jasper Sitwell and hopefully make contact with their undercover asset and Phil’s former field partner, Agent Maria Hill.  Phil carefully ignored the churning in his stomach at not being the one watching Maria’s back this time and hoped Maria hadn’t met with anything she couldn’t deal with.

As he’d predicted, the corner of the abandoned building they’d been using as a surveillance point was trashed when Phil reached it, but was thankfully not being watched.  It had only been a stroke of luck that Phil hadn’t been grabbed along with Jasper when the place had been raided; after spending almost the last twenty years in the thick of the action, first as a US Army Ranger and then a SHIELD field agent, Phil had found spending sixteen hours confined to watching surveillance feeds and monitoring comm chatter more than a little claustrophobic and he’d stepped out for a breath of air.

Hearing a noise behind him, Phil pivoted sharply, gun-first.  He almost smiled in relief when he recognized the figure coming up behind him.  Agent Maria Hill was still dressed for her undercover mission in a little black dress, but she’d kicked off her heels somewhere and was armed with a gun.  “Comms are down,” she said in greeting, her sharp, pale blue eyes scanning Phil quickly for injuries.

Phil nodded in confirmation, grateful Maria wasn’t asking for an explanation of the obvious.  It was one of the reasons he liked her so much.  “Where’s Agent Kilpatrick?” he asked, wondering what the hell had happened to the junior agent who was supposed to be Maria’s backup.

Maria snorted.  “Agent Kilpatrick is an idiot,” she said.  “Also, he’s not you.”  She blinked for a moment.  “Where’s Jasper?”

Phil felt his jaw clench against the now familiar urge to curse in Estonian and possibly several other languages.  “Our location was compromised.  They knew we were here,” he said and when he found out who was responsible, they’d pay for that.  “The smugglers snatched Jasper when they raided the op center.”

Spotting something in the wreckage of the computers, Phil crouched down to pull out a small PDA designed to help track SHIELD assets and targets dosed with SHIELD-designed trackers.  “However, I think I have a way to find him,” he said.

“Then let’s go get him back,” Maria said.

*~*

Another crappy mission, another crappy rooftop.

Clint Barton, better known as Hawkeye, let out a long breath as he stared down the scope of his snipers rifle.  Whoever had said the life of a mercenary was glamorous had been lying through their teeth.  Clint was cold, aching and pissed off, which was never a good combination, but added to the fact that he hadn’t been able to bring his bow on this job and Clint just wanted to shoot this asshole and get out of the country.  He’d already got what he’d come for, anyway.  The assassination of a low-level smuggler was just a cover; with any luck, the resulting chaos would make sure no one figure out what Clint had stolen.

The fact that Clint was exhausted, hungry and still bruised from his last job wasn’t helping his patience either.  Trying to ignore his discomfort, Clint raised his eye from the scope and the warehouse beyond to blink.  Movement caught the corner of his gaze as he did and Clint immediately turned his head to look.  If it wasn’t for the fact he was sneaking around a run-down warehouse in the early hours of the morning, Clint would have described the guy lurking in the shadows as average; average height, average build and dressed in a moderately expensive, but well-tailored suit.  Yet even if his simple presence hadn’t rung Clint’s warning bells, the way the man’s gaze never stopped scanning his immediate environment and the gun in his hand said he was more than he seemed.

A second later, Clint sucked in a sharp breath as the man turned and looked directly up at the roof as if he’d spotted Clint, but Clint _knew_ he’d done nothing to give his position away.  For a long moment he felt caught by sharp, blue eyes, before the man turned his gaze back to the warehouse.  Sucking in a rather shaky breath, Clint resettled in his perch and turned his attention back to covering his target.  He needed to make his shot and get out of here before anything else happened.  Slowly, he let out his breath and resisted the instinctual twitch of his finger on the trigger until the man was dead center in his crosshairs.  Clint’s body was sluggish from hours of the cold stone beneath him leaching body heat, but Clint was up and moving before the retort of his gunshot stopped echoing.

One shot, one kill.  He didn’t need to look to see that his target was dead.  Life, Clint knew with a terrifying finality, was painfully easy to end.

He ignored the familiar agony that flooded his body as blood flowed back into numb limbs with the practice that came from long experience.  If he didn’t move, he was dead – it was as simple as that.  Leaving his perch, Clint slung his snipers rifle over his shoulder and headed for the stairs to get off the now vulnerable rooftop, wincing as something hit the old injury on his arm.  Below him on the ground, the other smugglers were shouting as they milled around the warehouse in confusion.  Even though the warehouse itself stood on a mostly deserted lot, surrounded by a half-falling down fence, Clint still needed to get clear before the thugs or anyone else found him.  Sliding down the rooftop ladder, Clint felt his boots hit the ground and immediately started running.

Naturally, that was the moment the thugs spotted him.

Running out of options and escape routes, Clint ignored the shouts of the thugs behind him and hit the brick wall of one of the warehouse’s out-buildings at a dead sprint.  Using his momentum, Clint hauled himself up the wall by the drainage pipe and ignored the spike of pain in his arm.  He rolled his body over the edge of the roof just as bullets thudded into the brick wall below him.  Forcing his aching body to keep moving, Clint pushed himself to his feet and sprinted across the flat rooftop and leapt the gap between the out-building and the roof of the main warehouse.  He landed heavily with a grunt, before rolling back to his feet.

Clint cursed when he saw most of the warehouse roof was made up of glass skylights, but he had no choice but to keep going.  He heard renewed shouts behind him and had about a second to realize there was no way this side of Hell he was going to make it, before he heard the sound of bullets shattering glass at the same time he felt everything cracking underneath his boots.

Then he was falling.

Cursing loudly, Clint reached out for one of the rusted metal rafters as he fell, managing to grab it with one gloved hand.  His plummeting descent stopped with a jolt that wrenched Clint’s already aching shoulder and dragged a ragged shout of pain from his throat.  The sudden jolt also caused the strap of his rifle to slip off his other shoulder and distracted by the pain, Clint couldn’t grab it in time to stop it from crashing to the floor below.  Clint cursed loudly again before he looked up in alarm as his grip on the rafter began to slip.  Five seconds later, Clint slammed into the unforgiving floor of the warehouse himself among the shattered glass from the skylight.

For a moment, Clint lay sprawled on the concrete, the world around him lurching sickeningly.  He heard shouts somewhere to his left, the sounds fading in and out with his grasp on consciousness.  He gave a pathetic moan as he blinked away his blurred vision and suddenly throbbing head, before he realized he was looking at the wrong end of about four guns.  One of the men stepped forward with a cold smile that sent a shiver down Clint’s spine.  “It looks like we’ve caught a little bird, boys,” he said.

Mentally, Clint winced.  According to his contact, the psychotic head of this particular smuggling ring, Alexander Dumont, wasn’t supposed to be in Estonia until the day after tomorrow, which was why Clint had taken the risk to steal the smuggling ring’s contact and supplier list and assassinate Dumont’s second-in-command.  Clearly his contact had been lying.  “Oh, crap,” Clint muttered.

Dumont gave a humorless chuckle.  “Help our little bird to his feet,” he said.

Hands reached down and roughly dragged Clint to his feet by the collar of his jacket, which made his vision blur dangerously.  The thugs also stripped him of the gun holstered on his thigh and the knife at the small of his back.  “Do you mind?” he said archly at their rough treatment.  “It’s been a hell of a day.”

Blinking again, it was only then that Clint realized he’d crashed a party – and not the kind he usually liked judging by the bleeding guy in a suit bound and gagged in a nearby chair.

“You know, I really should thank you, Hawkeye,” Dumont said.  “Olesk was getting to be a little too troublesome for his worth.  You’ve saved me the effort of killing him myself.”

Clint pasted a cocky smirk on his face and ignored the way it hurt.  “I’m always happy to be helpful,” he quipped.  “For a price, of course.”

“Careful, little bird,” Dumont said.  “My generosity only extends so far and you’ve already stolen from me once this evening.”

Keeping his smirk on his face as his mind whirled, Clint tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Getting out of this one wasn’t going to be easy.  Clint had always known that one day, one of his jobs would go bad enough that he wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of trouble – he just hadn’t expected it to be this soon.  Dumont leveled another cold look at him.  “Give me back what you stole and I’ll consider only breaking both your legs before I let you leave,” he said.

Hiding a wince, Clint opened his mouth to reply with something flippant, because yeah, no thanks.  “Hesitate too long, Hawkeye,” Dumont added in warning, “and I’ll just shoot you.”

It wasn’t the first time Clint had heard that threat.  He was beginning to think he needed to re-evaluate his life choices.

Thankfully, Clint was saved from having to come up with an answer for Dumont by a small explosion at the warehouse’s side door.  Pain spiked through Clint’s head at the noise and the way the thugs around him immediately started yelling, but he forced himself to ignore it.   _Keep it together_ , he urged himself.

Taking advantage of the thugs’ distraction, Clint scanned the room around him for his nearest weapon and his eyes landed on the man in the suit tied to the chair.  Even with the gag, the man in the suit had been remarkably quiet through everything and as Clint blinked at him, he found a pair of intelligent brown eyes staring back.  Clint realized the man was far more alert than he had first appeared.  From the movements of his shoulders, Clint would also bet the man was attempting to get out of the ropes binding him.  Huh.  Clint realized that whoever had caused the explosion was obviously coming for him.  Clint could work with that.

Two figures moved silently out of the shadows a second later and Clint suddenly found himself in the middle of a very tense stand-off.  Clint eyed one of the thugs as he shifted, turning so that Clint could see where the thug had stashed the gun he’d taken from Clint in the waistband of his pants.  Then he turned his attention to the newcomers and blinked.  They certainly didn’t look like an elite rescue team.  The woman was tall and lean, with a pair of sharp, pale blue eyes and a fierce expression.  She was dressed rather incongruously in a short black dress and what looked like a pair of combat boots that were a size too big, but it was her partner who caught Clint’s attention, because he was the same man Clint had seen before.  Those blue eyes that had seemed to spot Clint so easily on the roof were fixed on Dumont and the thugs, his gun steady in front of him.  Despite the situation, Clint felt his eyes linger on the way the suit flatteringly hugged the man’s shoulders and lean waist, because hey, it might be Clint’s last chance.

“Ah, it looks like SHIELD has finally found us,” Dumont said, breaking the tense silence, his tone coldly mocking.  “You’re a little late to the party, agents.”

“Please put your guns on the ground and release Agent Sitwell,” the newcomer in the suit said, his voice perfectly polite and calm, but his tone completely unyielding.  Clint had to give him credit; whoever he was, he had  _balls_.  Hopefully, he also had the skills to back it up, although judging by the way he and his partner moved together knowingly, fluid and precise, Clint would bet both of them had to be military trained at the very least.  They’d probably need those skills to deal with what Clint was planning.

For a moment, Clint paused to think about the insanity he was contemplating, but then, he’d done stupider things in his life.  Surging into action, he ignored the pounding in his head as he dived for the thug who had his gun.  It felt good in his hand as he yanked it out of the thug’s belt.  He brought the gun up and tightened his finger on the trigger as his vision started to blur.   _Not now_ , he grimaced. Blinking a few times in a futile attempt to clear his vision, Clint took the shot from memory anyway.  He wasn’t called Hawkeye for nothing.  His lips curled into a satisfied smirk when Dumont dropped.

Turning towards the nearest thug, Clint grabbed his wrist and shoved upwards, throwing off the thug’s aim, before Clint simply brought up his own gun and shot the thug twice in the chest.  The sound of the gunshots was loud enough to echo painfully in Clint’s head, although that could also have been the sounds of the rest of the fight around him. He turned to focus on the thug to his right just in time to see him go down, jerking with two bullets to the chest.  Blinking, Clint realized that whoever the man in the suit was, he’d just saved Clint’s life.

*~*

Phil stood in the middle of the warehouse and tried to ignore the sensation of eyes staring at him.  He’d changed a lot since his days in the Rangers, learning how to hide behind suits and forgettable blandness, no matter how much he still swore like a soldier in his head.  It was part of who he was now; the ability to look like an accountant and still capable of killing half the room with a pencil.  What it didn’t do – and never had done – was make it easier when half the room was staring at him like he was an alien at the sudden discovery he wasn’t as boring as he looked.  Or even just a kid with sharp, blue eyes.

To say that Phil hadn’t expected to come face to face with a punk ass kid while trying to rescue Agent Sitwell would have been an understatement.  Yet Phil was looking at one.  The kid’s hair was long and shaggy and dyed with streaks of blond.  The fringe was long enough to almost obscure his eyes, but Phil didn’t miss the way that sharp gaze assessed him.  Nor did Phil miss the way his fingers came away red with blood when the kid gently touched the back of his head and.  Phil supposed he probably shouldn’t be calling the mercenary a kid, but considering he looked like he was more than ten years younger than Phil himself, Phil didn’t really care.

“Sooo…” the kid drawled, his voice pleasantly rough.  “You guys aren’t CIA, are you?”

Phil snorted before he could stop himself.  “Do I look like one of those thumb sucking assholes to you?” he said.  “No, don’t answer that.”

The kid just smirked.  The black-on-black outfit he wore emphasized a body hard with muscle and he wore the gun now holstered on his thigh with a casual familiarity.  It shouldn’t have been as appealing as it was, particularly since the hair and the smirk conspired with the glint of an earring in his right ear to make the kid look barely legal.

“Who are _you_?” Maria demanded of him.

“He’s _Hawkeye_ ,” Jasper said with the sort of breathless excitement that always made Phil brace for a shit-storm.  Phil also absently noticed Jasper had managed to free himself from the ropes and gag.  “The World’s Greatest Marksman.”

Phil just turned to look at Jasper, who sounded like he was close to gushing.  Considering that level of enthusiasm was usually reserved for some sort of scientific breakthrough, Phil figured the kid had to be something special.  That, however, didn’t change the fact Phil still had no idea who he was.  Jasper must have noticed, because he looked like he almost rolled his eyes.  “Coulson, he _never misses_ ,” he said.

“It’s always nice to be appreciated,” the kid drawled.

Biting back an irritated sigh, Phil shared a look with Maria, knowing she would understand his frustration.  Not that any of her feelings would show on her face; like Phil, Maria was a professional.  “Well, that would be an advantage considering the ease of which he gets captured,” Phil said, skepticism and sarcasm bleeding into his tone because he was exhausted and just wanted the mission to be _over_ so he could have a shower and _sleep_.

“Hey, fuck you, man,” the kid said, his eyes bright and fierce with anger.  “I fell through the fucking ceiling.”

Phil blinked, before he flicked his gaze towards the remains of glass on the floor and then up at the ceiling.  That was… actually, that was pretty impressive.  A fall like that, particularly onto concrete, should have resulted in broken bones at the very least, but the kid was still standing.  Combined with the unerring aim he’d shot the smugglers with even though he had a head injury, Phil was beginning to understand the potential Jasper had hinted at.  “My apologies,” he said dryly.  “I can see how falling through the ceiling would change things.”

“Seriously, man.  Fuck you,” the kid replied, but he must have seen Phil’s somewhat reluctant admiration on his face, because the kid’s words had lost their edge of anger and a faint smirk was curling at the corner of his mouth.

“We should go,” Maria said, pulling Phil’s attention away from the kid.  “We need to get to the extraction point.”

Her words had the kid tensing again, his gaze immediately shuttered and wary.  “Are you sure you guys aren’t CIA?” he said.

Absently, Phil wondered what the kid’s history with the CIA was to prompt that reaction, but knowing the CIA it was nothing good.  “Yes, I’m sure.  We try not to recruit idiots,” Phil said, although judging by the Intel for this mission he might have to revise that statement.  “We work for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.  Most people call us SHIELD.”

The kid snorted.  “That’s a mouthful,” he said with a smirk, before his eyes turned challenging.  “Is this the part where you give me the hard sell and try to recruit me?”

“No,” Phil said truthfully.  While he couldn’t deny that the kid’s skills might be useful to SHIELD, he wasn’t sure this was the time to go into SHIELD’s strict recruitment standards and how they didn’t include falling through ceilings.  “This is where we thank you for your cooperation and leave.”

Phil caught the flash of surprise and hurt that went through the kid’s eyes before his expression shuttered again.  Phil found himself softening in response.  “I do mean that,” he said.  “I would like to think we would have been able to rescue Agent Sitwell without any of us getting killed, but your help did make it significantly easier.”

The kid blinked, clearly rendered speechless by the genuine praise.  Going on instinct, Phil dug out a small white card from his pocket.  It was completely blank and on one side Phil wrote down the address of SHIELD headquarters in New York.  “If you ever change your mind about recruitment, give us a call,” he said, holding out the card.

He nodded once when the kid took it, before turning his focus to Maria and Jasper.  It was time to go.  The three of them moved to leave, but the kid’s voice made Phil pause in the remains of the doorway.  “Hey, Agent?” he said.  “You got a name?”

“Coulson,” Phil said.  “Phil Coulson.”

The kid smirked again.  “Well then Coulson, Phil Coulson, maybe I’ll see you around.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it, kid,” Phil replied dryly, ducking out of the warehouse as the kid’s laughter echoed after him.

“It’s cute,” Maria said, falling into step beside Phil as they left the warehouse.  “You like him.”

Phil sent her a look that suggested he thought she was losing touch with reality.  “And how did you come to that conclusion?” he asked.

“You actually cracked an expression back there,” Maria said with a grin.

“Don’t worry, Boss,” Jasper added.  “He’ll call.  Promise.”

*~*

**SHIELD Headquarters, New York, 2002**

Clint Barton squinted against the sunlight as the taxi pulled up in front of a tall building in downtown New York.  The building didn’t look special, but the address was the one Agent Phil Coulson had given him three weeks ago in a half-destroyed warehouse in Estonia.  The taxi driver’s gravelly voice mad Clint bite back a grimace as it snatched his focus and sent echoes of pain through his skull.  Grabbing his wallet, Clint shoved a few notes at the man, grateful he managed to pick the right currency and levered his battered body out of the backseat, only barely managing to hold back another low groan at the movement.  The black and blue bruises and cuts covering his skin were evidence of the injuries inflicted by the car bomb that had almost killed him a week ago, although he’d thankfully managed to cover most of them with jeans and a long sleeved shirt.  Sunglasses hid his right eye which was still swollen and black, but nothing hid the stitches decorating his forehead and jaw.  Luckily, he hadn’t broken any bones – only cracked a couple – but it still  _hurt_.

Limping forward, Clint tried not to let the bag holding his few meager belongings jostle his cracked ribs as the taxi pulled out to the bustling New York traffic behind him.  Clint still didn’t think this was a good idea, but for better or worse, he was here now.  “Here’s hoping they don’t toss my ass in a cell,” he muttered to himself.

All Clint really wanted was a place he could rest, a few painkillers and maybe a shot of something alcoholic.  Instead, he found himself staring up at the New York headquarters of SHIELD and contemplating signing away his soul.  Finally giving in and letting himself get recruited by a shady intelligence organization was probably bat-shit insane, but Clint had run out of options.  The last of his so-called friends had betrayed him, leaving him at the mercy of a gang of Ukrainian mercenaries in the dirty backstreets of Kiev.  The car bomb had just been the icing on the cake, proving that if Clint wanted to keep on breathing, he was going to need someone to watch his back.  SHIELD and Coulson seemed like his best choice for that.

Squaring his shoulders as much as he could with his injuries, Clint moved forward and headed towards the large front door to the building.  He tried hard to mask his limp even though the pain was making it difficult.  The wound from a jagged piece of shrapnel he’d had to dig out of his leg would take a while to heal, but Clint had been taught early in life not to show exploitable weakness.  The foyer inside the building looked like it should belong to a rich lawyers office or a fancy-ass hotel, or maybe the entrance to CIA headquarters in Langley that they always put in movies; Clint had no idea if that compared to reality, because he’d never actually been to Langley.  Set back from the large front windows and what looked like a waiting area of couches and plants was a large, black reception desk.  Clint walked up to the cool-eyed blonde behind it and attempted to paste on his most charming smile, even though he left his sunglasses on.  The receptionist didn’t look too impressed when she looked over and Clint saw the faint bulge if a holstered gun beneath the woman's suit jacket.  At least Clint knew he probably had the right place.

“May I help you?” the woman asked with a polite smile as cool as her gaze.

“I hope so,” Clint said, still smiling charmingly.  “I’m here to see Agent Coulson.”

The receptionist blinked once at that, but Clint wasn’t sure if her mild surprise was because of the name of the fact he’d said ‘agent’.  “Can I have your name, sir?” she asked.

“Tell him Hawkeye is here to see him,” Clint said.

The receptionist did the surprised blink thing again.  “One moment,” she said, before turning away slightly to use the phone.  “Sir, I have Hawkeye in the lobby wanting to see Agent Coulson.”

There was a short pause as whoever was on the other end of the phone spoke, before the receptionist nodded.  “Yes, sir,” she said and hung up.  Then she turned back to Clint with a polite smile.  “Someone will be down to see you in just a moment.”

Clint nodded back, internally debating whether or not that meant a crack team of agents was about to burst out of somewhere and arrest him.  He also wondered why the receptionist hadn’t said Agent Coulson was coming down to see him.  Instead of being arrested, about three minutes later one of the nearby elevators dinged and a lone man stepped out.  Clint had to blink because the man was  _nowhere near_  the kind of man he’d expected to be working for SHIELD; not that Clint had  _ever_  expected to meet a six foot three African-American man in a black leather trench coat and a fucking  _eye patch_  in his life.

The man gave Clint a sharp look as he jammed the elevator’s ‘keep open’ button with his finger.  “Barton, get in,” he said.

Clint didn’t bother asking how the man knew his name, but he did hesitate to walk into a confined space with a man he didn't know.  That was a good way to get a knife in the back.  The man shot him a look that was either irritated or amused. “You can hold that gun you’re hiding under your shirt on me if it’ll make you feel better,” he said dryly.  “Just get in.”

Reluctantly, Clint stepped into the elevator, careful to keep at least an arm’s length between them the whole time.  If that bothered the man, he didn’t show it.  Wordlessly, the man hit the button to close the doors, before pushing a button for the fifth floor. “Where are you taking me?” Clint asked after a moment.

“The junior agents’ break room,” the man answered.  “I don’t know about you, but I need coffee.”

“Isn’t that a security breach or something?” Clint asked curiously, because in his experience the guys in suits always cared about shit like that.

The man snorted.  “The junior agents’ break room is hardly where we keep all our secrets.  What are you going to do, Barton?” he said.  “Tell HYDRA I prefer my afternoon coffee black with two sugars?  I’m sure that will bring down the free world as we know it.”

Clint smirked.  He couldn’t help it.  Whoever this guy was, Clint liked him.  “Oh, I would,” Clint replied, “but it would probably help if I knew who you were first.”

The elevator doors opened on the fifth floor and the man strode out, before turning back to face Clint.  “Nick Fury,” he said.  “Director of SHIELD.”

That was  _not at all_  what Clint had been expecting and it was only years of acrobatic training that stopped him actually tripping over his own feet in surprise.  Fury grinned evilly as if he knew anyway.  “Come on,” he said.  “I wasn’t kidding about that coffee.”

Blinking away his surprise, Clint headed after Fury and had to smirk at the way the other agents seemed to jump out of the way as Fury strode down the corridor.  He winced a little at the way his leg protested when he sped up his pace a little as Fury stopped and held open a door for him impatiently.  Clint covered it with a smirk as he slid past the other man.  “You really like fucking with the newbies, don’t you?” he quipped.

Fury grinned, the expression faintly terrifying.  “My therapist said I needed a hobby,” he deadpanned.  He paused, looking Clint over critically.  “Sit down before you fall over, Barton,” he said.

Figuring a man who was Director of an organization like SHIELD had probably seen worse than his face, Clint slid off his sunglasses as he sat down at a table, making sure to keep both Fury and the door in a direct line of sight.  Fury let out a snort as he placed a paper cut filled with thick, black coffee in front of Clint.  “I’m guessing your face doesn’t usually look like that?” he said.

“Car bomb,” Clint said in explanation, before he pasted on a smirk he didn’t quite feel as Fury sat down opposite him.  “I thought you would know that already.  Don’t you guys have a file around here with my name on it?”

Fury leant back in his chair and took a drink of coffee.  “Believe it or not, we don’t keep track of every mercenary in the word, no matter how good their aim,” he said, watching Clint with a gaze that missed nothing.  “Which brings us to the real question: what is it that you want from SHIELD?  Revenge?”

Clint had to look away from the weight of that gaze.  He looked down at the untouched coffee in front of him, before he lifted his eyes to scan the room for threats.  Then, with a deep breath, he looked back at Fury.  “All I want is to not have to constantly watch my back for a knife aimed at my kidneys,” he said.

Fury grinned.  “Well then, welcome to SHIELD, Agent Barton.”

*~*

“Did you hear the news?  Fury recruited Hawkeye to SHIELD.”

Stepping out of the elevator into SHIELD’s New York offices, Phil turned and raised an eyebrow at Maria over the rim of his coffee cup.  Being ambushed with gossip by his former partner was sadly neither new nor strange to Phil, so he simply gave her a flat look and turned in the direction of his office.  “Oh, cheer up,” Maria said.  “Your morning is probably only going to get worse.”

When Maria fell into step beside him, Phil bit back the urge to sigh.  She was dressed in a designer suit and heels today, which was strange enough that Phil knew she was up to something.  He took another sip of his coffee to hide his irritated frown. “Don’t say that,” he told her.  “I’ll end up getting shot by lunch time.”

“Well, someone’s grumpy this morning,” Maria said with a smirk.  “Bad flight?”

Phil suppressed a grimace at the reminder of the excruciating flight back after his latest mission to Europe.   They’d had to fly out of Kyrgyzstan on an old military cargo plane and the loud droning of the engines had almost made Phil’s head explode.  The crowded commercial flight back to New York had almost been bliss in comparison.  The mission itself had gone as well as to be expected, but Maria’s skills hadn’t been needed for this particular mission, so she’d been spared the horror of flying in a plane held together by duct tape and a prayer.  “Yes,” Phil said.  “Not to mention that this coffee tastes like crap.”

“Yet, you still keep drinking it,” Maria pointed out with amusement.

“Who’s drinking what and is it alcoholic?” Jasper asked from where he had been waiting for them outside Phil’s office door, obviously having overheard Phil and Maria as they’d rounded the corner; Jasper looked as bad as Phil felt.

With a roll of his eyes and the hint of a smile he just couldn’t stop, Phil opened his office door and stepped inside, ignoring the way Jasper and Maria had immediately started bickering as they followed.  Some things never changed and Phil was still trying to work out if that was a good thing or a bad one.  Phil set down his briefcase, hung up his coat and waited for a pause between insults.  “Is someone dead who shouldn’t be?” he asked mildly.

Maria blinked once in surprise.  “I don’t think so,” she said.

“It’s worse, actually,” Jasper added, his dark eyes glittering with humor behind his glasses.  “We’re dragging you out to brunch.”

Phil opened his mouth to protest vehemently, but Maria cut him off with a roll of her eyes and a firm tug on his arm.  “Yes, I know,” she said.  “It’s cruel and unusual torture.  However, the new crop of junior agents is also undergoing their training in the gym today and we know how you love watching them get smacked to the mat.”

“I think you’re confusing me with yourself,” Phil replied, but let himself get dragged along all the same.

Between the two of them, Jasper and Maria manhandled him all the way down to the gym on the lower levels underneath the building.  Seeing Phil enter the viewing room above the wide, open space of the training gym, several agents moved aside to offer Phil, Jasper and Maria a good position up front.  Maria smirked when she saw Phil’s look of confusion at the behavior.  “You’re a senior agent now, Phil,” she teased in soft voice.  “Half of SHIELD is still trying to work out if they’d get a promotion if they slept with you.”

“They are not,” Phil replied.

“They really are, Boss,” Jasper agreed.  “And for the record, I would, if I didn’t know how much of an asshole you actually were.”

In an attempt to distract his team mates, Phil gestured at the junior agents waiting below in their SHIELD-issued sweats.  “Do we have anyone interesting in the new group?” he asked.

“That depends on your definition of interesting,” Maria said with a huff.

“There are a few oddballs this time,” Jasper said, since he was usually the one who ferreted out the best gossip. “The tall blond on the left there is Lieutenant Jackson Murphy whose notable achievement mainly seems to be his ability to land aircraft while large parts of them are actually on fire.  Then we have Elizabeth Darcy, the woman with the scary expression and red hair.  According to rumor, she once beat up an entire grab team with a chair leg and half a computer keyboard.  And of course, there’s _Hawkeye_ , the sniper who _never misses_.  I told you he’d call, Boss.”

Maria smirked.  “Jasper has a fan boy crush on Hawkeye that almost rivals your love of Captain America, Phil.”

Phil rolled his eyes but didn’t reply, his attention caught by movement in the gym below.  He couldn’t hear what was being said, but from the smirk on his face and the way the trainer was looking less than impressed, it appeared Agent Clint Barton was being the smartass he was rumored to be.  Phil had missed it because he’d been on a mission for the last two weeks, but apparently Hawkeye had been recruited by Fury himself after he’d turned up SHIELD’s doorstep.  The impressive bruises and black eye he’d turned up with were starting to fade and he seemed to be thriving in SHIELD training, but unlike Jasper, Phil hadn’t been stalking his progress like a creeper.  However, that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested to see what Barton would do as he sauntered out into the middle of the practice ring to face down his hand-to-hand instructor.  Phil was betting it would be good.

Barton turned to show his smirking expression to the gathered junior agents, clearly playing to the crowd.  However, Agent Stoyanov was a bastard of a trainer and as soon as Barton had turned his back, he lashed out with a kick that had sent many cocky junior agents crashing to the mat.  Phil had to hold back his own smirk at the thought, because Barton was definitely not your average junior agent.  Using his clearly sharp instincts, Barton spun and dodged the kick designed to take him out at the knees.  He blocked Stoyanov’s vicious follow up kick to his stomach, all signs of his playful smirk gone from his face.  For the first time, Phil could see why the name Hawkeye had stuck.  Barton’s eyes were hard and alert, trained on every twitch from his opponent.  He held his own body loose and fluid and like this, with the sarcastic and defiant part of his mask stripped away, Barton was pure predator.

He slammed a fist towards Agent Stoyanov’s face, but Stoyanov blocked it.  Barton retaliated with a sharp jab, before pivoting under Stoyanov’s arm and driving another punch towards the instructor’s face.  The strike forced Stoyanov back as the punch glanced off his jaw.  Shaking his head slightly, Stoyanov said something to Barton and Phil didn’t need to see Barton’s expression to know it spelled trouble.  This time when Stoyanov sent a punch towards Barton’s face, Barton turned as he blocked.  His other arm rolled over Stoyanov’s as Barton snapped out a ruthless elbow towards the instructor’s face.  Stoyanov blocked the elbow, but Barton was already moving.  He kicked Stoyanov low in the stomach with enough force to make the other man grimace and taking his opportunity, Barton surged forward with the hint of a vicious smile curving his lips and caught Stoyanov around the back of his neck, before slamming his knee into the instructor’s nose.  Then, for good measure, Barton kicked Stoyanov’s legs out from under him.

Around Phil, the other agents broke into gasps and cheers at Barton’s victory and down below in the gym, the man himself was smirking again.  Phil ignored the other agents and Jasper’s probing stare as he hummed thoughtfully. A second later, Barton glanced up at the viewing room, his blue eyes bright with challenge as they looked almost directly into Phil’s.  Usually, Phil wouldn’t believe that a junior agent would be able to see well enough to distinguish individual observers from the gym below, but Phil wasn’t going to make the same assumption with a man known as Hawkeye.  Phil had been a SHIELD agent for long enough to know that Barton’s reputation was about to gain a sense of legend – and if the determination in Barton’s eyes was anything to go by, this would only be the first feat of many.

“Well?” Jasper almost demanded after another moment.

“You’re right.  Barton is an impressive asset,” Phil admitted, which felt like an understatement, but he wasn’t about to let Jasper know that.  “However, he would be a lot more impressive if he didn’t make his instructors bleed during training.”

Jasper was silent for a moment as Maria grinned.  “You know,” Jasper said.  “I’m going to tell Barton you said that.”


	2. 2003

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I just want to mention that there is action movie level violence in this fic and small amounts of blood.

**12 miles outside of San Pédro, Ivory Coast, 2003**

Clint sighed irritably and resisted the urge to roll his shoulders.  Somehow, despite his best efforts, the cold drizzle had found a way to drip down the neck of his jacket and was weaving cold, wet trails across his skin.  Lying on rocky ground among the scrub was hardly the most comfortable place to be in the rain, but it wasn’t as if Clint was visiting the Ivory Coast for the weather.  He was used to it.  He’d been a SHIELD agent for six months and so far only the locations had changed.  What should have been a quick and easy mission to take out an arms dealer and his local distributor trading in weapons sourced from the US to warlords across Africa was turning into a shit-storm and Clint could do nothing but grit his teeth and watch it unfold.  Normally Clint was a hell of a lot more patient in finding ways out of a situation like this, but his handler was a giant dick and as a result, the mission in general was pissing him off.  Agent-in-Charge Jenkins had decided he didn’t like the original mission plan and had re-arranged the junior agents assigned to arrest people after Clint had taken out the targets.

It didn’t help that Jenkins had decided Clint was a mouthy asset who had no value beyond his trigger finger and had delightedly told him so in front of the whole SHIELD team, before banning Clint from using his bow.  Clint had shaken off worse insults in the past, but Jenkins was his third handler in six months and all of them had been the same.  Clint was beginning to question his wisdom at joining SHIELD in the first place; dead was dead, whether it was by a knife in the back or an incompetent handler who wouldn’t listen to basic logic.

Clint scanned the small airfield in front of him with his sharp gaze, but it remained as empty as it had been the last seven times he’d checked.  He heard the faint click in his earpiece that meant someone wanted to talk to him and he had to muffle a curse when he realized it was Jenkins.  “Barton, can you see anything from your position?” his handler asked.

He wasn’t exactly sure what he was expected to see that Jenkins couldn’t, because it wasn’t as if the large military cargo plane they were expecting could have landed without Jenkins fucking noticing.  “Negative, the airfield is still empty,” Clint replied, because he  _could_  be professional, fuck you very much.

“Your attitude is unappreciated, Barton,” Jenkins said because he really was a  _giant dick_.

Clint was tired and pissed off and didn’t think he had the energy required to play nice with his asshole of a handler right now.  It was days like these that Clint wondered if it would be better to go back to working alone.  “When they recruited me, no one told me I’d be joining a super-secret organization filled with douchebags based solely on a decision made because of a pair of pretty blue eyes and a man who looks like a pirate,” he muttered to himself.

“You should show your superiors a little more respect, Barton,” Jenkins said frostily and Clint winced, not having realized the comm channel was still open because he was so fucking exhausted he was making rookie mistakes. There went another disciplinary write-up.

Thankfully, Jenkins was cut off by the arrival of the plane they’d been waiting for.  Clint settled in to watch and wait.  The crew from the plane began to unload the guns and keep his eyes on them until he was given the order to take out his first target.  The guys coming to collect the guns, including Clint’s second target, arrived in three boats just as the crew had finished unloading and Clint followed the first target in his rifle scope as he went down to the small dock to talk to the leader. “Barton, you have authorization to take out the targets,” Jenkins ordered a moment later.

Naturally, that was the moment everything went to shit.

Clint had warned Jenkins that it had been a bad idea to station two junior agents near the dock because there was a chance they’d be seen from the water.  Part of Clint felt perversely justified to be proved right when some of the men in the boats started pointing and yelling, but mostly Clint was calculating shots and angles as Agents Reid and Morelli were yanked from cover.  “Barton, take the shots!” Jenkins’ voice barked in his ear.

“Sir, what about Reid and Morelli?” Clint asked, hesitating to follow orders.

“Never mind about the junior agents, just take out the targets!” Jenkins snapped.

Cursing in his head, Clint swung back to the dock and let out a long, slow breath.  Range to the first target was five hundred meters and the wind was coming out of the south.  Clint knew it would take at least two seconds to shoot and re-aim and Reid and Morelli only had about thirty seconds before someone did something permanent.  Setting his sights on the first target, Clint squeezed the trigger.  Five seconds later, the second target was down as well and the airfield had erupted into chaos.  Some of the other goons were now shouting and pointing in Clint’s direction, but he held position and swung back around to Reid and Morelli and the bad guys about to play executioner.  Letting out another slow breath even his instincts started screaming at Clint to move, he carefully took out the two goons standing over Reid and Morelli with AK-47s before the two terrified junior agents got dead.

Pushing himself to his feet as soon as he’d seen the second goon go down, Clint abandoned the rifle and started sprinting for cover and away from the men with AK-47s that were almost on top of him.  The shouts behind him got louder and Clint heard the stucco burst of gunfire just before a sharp, searing pain cut across his right bicep. Instincts clamoring, Clint threw himself forward as he felt another hot bullet cut through the air where he’d been only a heartbeat before.  He couldn’t stop the pained groan as his arm hit a particularly rocky bit of ground and before he could push himself back to his feet, Clint felt what could only be a rifle butt slam into his temple.  He slumped back to the ground with another groan, his vision swimming in and out of focus and threatening to go black.

“What is it with people hitting me in the head?” he muttered as rough hands yanked him to his feet and efficiently stripped him of his weapons before tying his hands behind his back.

Clint wondered if Jenkins would actually care that he’d been captured as he was forcibly marched down to the dock by his captors and shoved unceremoniously into one of the boats.  He grunted as he hit something hard with his arm, the graze from the gunshot throbbing in a sort of counterpoint to the pounding in his head.  All around him, SHIELD agents were trying to gain control of the chaos, but Jenkins’ plan was already spectacularly falling apart.  The crew from the plane had abandoned everything as soon as they’d seen SHIELD and were prepping for take-off, while the rest of the smugglers in the boats were keeping the SHIELD team back as they attempted to salvage as many of the guns as they could.  Thankfully, most of the smugglers were ignoring Clint in the confusion and Clint used the distraction to try and wiggle out of the ropes they’d bound him with.  He’s gotten out of worse scrapes than this before.  He could do it.

“What are you doing?” one of the smugglers asked in heavily accented English, kicking Clint in the stomach for emphasis.

He grunted at the impact.  “Just scratching an itch,” Clint shot back and received another kick for his trouble.

The smuggler’s attention was quickly recaptured by the shouts and gunfire around them and Clint knew this might be his only chance to escape.  Rolling to his feet, Clint rammed his shoulder into the smuggler’s gut. Three steps later, he was jumping into the water as the smuggler bellowed loudly behind him.  Diving downwards, Clint used the water to help slip out of his already loosened ropes as bullets sliced into the water above him.  As soon as his arms were free, Clint swam as close as he could to the wooden hull of the boat and waited for a pause in the gunshots.  His lungs were starting to burn before he got one.  Kicking up with a burst of strength, he surged out of the water and used the low edge of the boat to push him even higher.  Clint sucked in a deep lungful of air while he could, before he reached out for the startled smuggler.  Using his own body weight, Clint yanked the smuggler from the boat into the water.

Clint grabbed the knife from the man’s belt and struck out with deadly accuracy as they sank deeper into the water.  Letting go of the now limp weight, Clint ducked under the boat to the other side, still clutching the knife tightly in his hand.  The cold water was slowly stealing the strength from his limbs, but on the upside, it had numbed the throbbing pain of his gunshot graze.  Clint couldn’t tell how the fight was going above him, but he needed air and he’d never been one to just wait around anyway.  Breaking the surface again, Clint pulled himself onto the boat and discovered he’d come up behind the two remaining smugglers.  Not that he remained behind them for long; rising out of water was kind of noisy and both smugglers turned with a shout.  Steeling himself for the coming fight, Clint reacted to the first smuggler before he’d even realized the other man had moved.

Clint slammed a kick into his stomach, throwing off the smuggler’s aim.  The burst of loud gunfire went wide and splintered the wood of the boat to Clint’s left.  Clint surged in, shoving the gun away with one hand as he used the other to throw the knife he still held at the second smuggler.  The man went down with a choked sound of pain, another painfully loud and wild burst of gunfire splintering wood too close to Clint for comfort.  He turned his attention back to the first smuggler just in time to feel the men wrench backwards and try to hit Clint in the face with the butt of his gun.  Clint stepped back, but before he could either find something to use as a weapon or take the smuggler down, the smuggler jerked as three bullets slammed into his chest.

His heart suddenly pounding in his chest, Clint whirled in the direction of the bullets, only to stop in surprise.  Agent Reid, his gun still aimed at where the smuggler had been was standing on the dock, Agent Morelli just behind his shoulder guarding his back.  Behind both the junior agents, the rest of the fight was dying down as SHIELD finally gained the upper hand.  Swallowing, Clint moved to step off the boat.  “Thanks,” he said after he’d jumped down to the dock.

Agent Reid gave him a somewhat shaky smile.  “I thought I’d return the favor,” he said.  “Thanks for what you did.  You know, back there.”

Clint wasn’t really sure what to say to that.  He shrugged.  “Just looking out for the team, right?” he said.

“I don’t care what anyone else says,” Agent Morelli said from just behind Reid.  “I’m glad you’re on our team, Hawkeye.”

“Yeah,” Reid nodded.

Huh.  Maybe Clint would stick around SHIELD for a bit longer after all.

*~*

**SHIELD Headquarters, New York, 2003**

“Congratulations, Cheese, you’ve just won yourself a new challenge.”

Phil looked up with barely hidden irritation when a large, thick file was slapped down on top of the intelligence briefing he’d been reading.  It was late, Phil was tired and he still had a stack of files to go through before he could actually go home – he didn’t have the time or the energy to deal with his boss’ special brand of melodramatics.  Leveling a glare at his old friend, Phil frowned.  “No,” he said.  “I don’t care what it is.  The answer is no.”

Unconcerned by his blatant refusal, Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD, sat down in the chair opposite Phil and swung his booted feet up to rest on the pile of folders that comprised Phil’s inbox.  The smirk on Nick’s face sent all the warning bells in Phil’s head clamoring; it was the same expression he’d worn back when they’d both been in the Rangers, right before he’d done something batshit insane, like conduct a one-man frontal assault on a heavily-fortified enemy position, fully expecting Phil to drag his stupid ass out of trouble yet again.

“Come on, Phil,” Nick said.  “You’ll like this one.”

Phil looked down at the cover of the file on his desk and bit back an unflattering curse when he saw the name written on the front: Barton, Clinton F.

Since that fateful mission in Estonia, Phil had heard a multitude of rumors about the sniper that had only grown during the six months Barton had been an active field agent – he was cocky, sarcastic, insubordinate and almost impossible to work with.  So far he’d gone through four handlers and they’d all cited insubordination and disciplinary issues as the reason for reassignment; not that Phil had been checking up on Barton in any way, no matter what Jasper alleged.  He couldn’t even say why he had, because it wasn’t as if he actually knew Barton that well.  Since Estonia, all he’d seen of Barton was that one incident in training.

“I don’t take on individual assets anymore, Nick,” he said, putting down his pen with a sigh.  “In fact, I believe that was one of the selling points of my recent promotion.”

Nick grinned.  “I only said I wouldn’t stick you on babysitting duty anymore,” he replied.  Then his expression turned serious and Phil found himself unconsciously straightening in his chair.  “I’m asking for a favor, Phil,” Nick said.

Phil settled back in his chair and tried to relax despite the fact that Nick’s ‘favors’ had let to Phil getting shot no less than three times on three _different_ occasions.  “Why are you giving him to me?” he asked.

“Because he needs a handler with a level head and a fuckload of patience,” Nick said.  “He’s had a hard life and he doesn’t trust easily.  I made a mistake with his first couple of handlers.  I thought they’d give Barton a chance to show what he was capable of, but instead they took one look at his file and dismissed him as a grunt.  I want to make up for that.  Barton has the potential to be an incredible asset and an even better agent.  He just needs a chance to prove it.”

Phil was quiet for a moment as he watched Nick.  He could read between the lines enough to tell what Nick wasn’t saying; he didn’t want to have to cut Barton loose.  Phil sighed.  “You like him,” he accused.

Nick shrugged, but the smile proved that Phil was right.  “The first time we met, he looked me straight in the eye, not the eye-patch,” he said.  “He reminds me a lot of you, actually.”

Phil gave into the urge to roll his eyes.  “Yeah, but I knew you before the eye-patch, so I’m not sure it counts,” he said.

The expression on Nick’s face was distinctly unimpressed.  “I meant that you’re both sarcastic bastards who get really creative with swear words, but that’s true enough too, I suppose.”

Phil sent him a flat look.  Nick smirked.  “Fine, I’ll do it,” Phil said with a huff, “but on one condition: I get to do it my way.  That means no hovering over my shoulder, checking up on me or appearing every three seconds to give me some sort of irritating Yoda-like piece of advice.  Got it?”

Nick chuckled.  “There’s that bastard of a Sergeant I used to know,” he said.  “And I got it.  No interference.”

“Good,” Phil said.

There was silence for a moment as Phil watched Nick.  “Don’t assume this is interference…” Nick began and Phil groaned.  That agreement had lasted all of five seconds.  Nick leveled a one-eyed glare at him.  “But your team needs a sniper now that Alvarez is down with broken ribs.”

Phil sighed as he watched Nick swing his feet down from Phil’s desk and stand to leave.  Unfortunately, Nick had a point; one of the things on Phil’s to-do-list had been to find a replacement sniper for Agent Alvarez.  “We don’t have any scheduled upcoming missions for a while, but I’ll keep it in mind,” Phil said dryly.

“I’m the Director of SHIELD,” Nick said with a devious grin.  “If you want more work, I can give you work.”

Rolling his eyes, Phil attempted to turn back to his paperwork when Nick paused in the doorway and looked back with that infuriating smirk.  Phil narrowed his eyes.  “Lighten up, Cheese,” he said.  “You never know, but you might actually end up _liking_ Barton.”

Phil resisted throwing a pen at his boss’ head, but only barely.

*~*

If he was being truthful, Clint hadn’t been surprised to find himself given a new handler after the shit-storm with Jenkins.  What _had_ surprised him, however, was the fact that his new handler was Agent Phil Coulson.  Clint had heard a lot of rumors about the senior agent since he’d arrived at SHIELD; apparently, he was a hardass with no sense of humor and the soul of an android who ran his ops like a dictator and didn’t tolerate anyone breaking rules or protocol unless it was him.  Clint didn’t particularly care as long as he wasn’t a hypocritical asshole like Jenkins, but the rumors didn’t quite match what Clint remembered about the other agent.  Estonia had been a close one, but he remembered the way Agent Coulson had stormed into the warehouse in Pärnu as calm as anything to rescue his captured agent.  Then after the fight, he’d given Clint an assessing look with a pair of the bluest eyes Clint had ever seen and thanked Clint for his help like Clint wasn’t a mercenary most intelligence organizations wanted to kill.

He hadn’t seen Coulson since then, aside from a few glances in the corridor and that one time during training, but Agent Sitwell had assured Clint that Coulson had been keeping an eye on him in his own way.  Clint had been skeptical, because Clint was just one asset of many, but Sitwell had been insistent.  Sitwell was on Coulson’s preferred team, so if anyone would know, he would.  He was also well-respected and well-liked around SHIELD, which usually meant he knew all the good gossip too.  Either way, it didn’t matter because Clint was going to find Coulson.  He needed to know where he stood.

Walking down the corridor to Coulson’s office, Clint tried to ignore the nerves in his stomach.  He hadn’t been nervous about meeting any of his other handlers and Clint was resolutely _not_ thinking about the reasons why this time was different.  If anyone asked, it was only because he didn’t want Fury to kick his ass back out onto the street.

The door to Coulson’s office was already half open and Clint pasted on his most insolent smirk as he pushed the door the rest of the way open, but his hand stopped halfway to knocking on the doorframe when he saw what was beyond.  The office was not what Clint had been expecting.  Elegant decorating clashed with a desk covered in chaotic mess in a strange combination that was completely unlike the tidy, regimented piles that Clint had imagined.  The sleek computer sat in the middle of Coulson’s desk, surrounded by maps and files, while the dark wood bookcase along the wall alternated between rows of books, both old and new, and odd knickknacks.  A black leather couch sat in the far corner of the office near the bookcase and it looked pretty damn comfortable to Clint’s eyes.  The office looked… homey, for lack of a better word, as if was filled with Coulson’s personality.

However, the office wasn’t what had caught Clint’s attention enough to freeze him in his tracks.  From what Clint had seen and heard about Coulson, he hadn’t expected to find the agent glaring at his computer like he was trying to set fire to it with his eyes alone, one hand brandishing his pen like a weapon.  Just like in Estonia, Coulson wore a well-tailored suit, but even to Clint’s untrained eyes this one looked more expensive, although Clint could still see the faint bulge of a shoulder holster under his jacket.  Taking a moment to appreciatively look over the other man, Clint leant casually against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest.

“You know, I don’t think glaring it to death is actually going to work,” he said.

The intense blue-eyed glare shifted from the computer to Clint.  It was almost amusing to watch the way Coulson immediately shifted his expression to bland professionalism, like he hadn’t been trying to kill his computer with his eyes three seconds ago.  “Can I help you, Agent Barton?” he asked politely.

“Word has it you’re my new handler,” Clint said, still smirking.  “I thought I’d come by and say ‘hi’ and check if you had any missions for me, that sort of thing.”

Coulson blinked once.  “Hello,” he said.  “Thank you for checking in, Agent Barton.  There are no missions for you at this present time.  I will let you know if that changes.  Please shut the door on your way out.”

Everything was said in a perfectly polite tone, but Clint knew a dismissal when he heard one.  He just didn’t believe it.  His other handlers had had a million questions for him, usually followed by a speech about ‘following orders’ and ‘field discipline’.  “That’s it?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Coulson replied.  Then he paused for a moment.  “Actually, no.  Do you know a good synonym for ‘useless’?”

“Uh…” Clint said, completely thrown by the question.  Reaching up, he shoved his long, shaggy fringe off his forehead and absently wondered if he should have gotten a haircut before his last mission.  _Lack of regulation appearance_ had been one of the complaints from the last handler before Jenkins and Clint had rebelliously let his hair grow long and shaggy as a result.  He could almost tie it back in a ponytail now.  “Not expedient to the situation?” he suggested.

Coulson hummed thoughtfully.  “That’s good,” he said, turning back to his computer and beginning to type.  “It’s also a fairly accurate description of Agent Morris.”

“I don’t think I’ve met him,” Clint said.

“Be thankful,” Coulson told him absently.

Clint blinked, because after all the hype and rumor, he’d expected Coulson to be laying down the law, not ignoring him.  Clint wasn’t one to ever leave things he didn’t understand alone – in fact his usual method was poking them with a stick – so Clint pushed off the doorframe and sauntered into the office to sprawl across the chair in front of Coulson’s desk.  Coulson continued to ignore him.  “You know,” Clint drawled.  “All my other handlers had a list of rules for me to follow.”

Coulson stopped typing for a moment and looked over at Clint.  He arched an eyebrow.  “Why would I do that? You never followed any of them,” he said.

And there it was.  So much for Coulson being different.  Clearly, he didn’t even think Clint was worth enough to even _try_ to get him to behave.  The sound of Coulson’s sigh broke into Clint’s thoughts and he glanced up to find Coulson giving him an unimpressed look.  “Barton, are you a grown man?” he asked.

In any other situation, Clint would have made a flippant or flirtatious comment, but for some reason, Clint still wanted to make a good impression.  “Yeah,” he said.

“Then until proved otherwise, I’m going to assume you don’t need me to tell you when to eat or how to tie your own shoelaces,” Coulson told him.  “Am I wrong in my assumption?”

Clint looked at Coulson for a long moment, trying and failing to ignore the spread of warmth those words invoked.  It had been such a long time since someone had given him the benefit of the doubt and treated him like an actual human being that he almost didn’t know what to do.  “You’re not wrong,” Clint replied softly.

“Good,” Coulson said and turned back to the computer.  “Try not to scare the junior agents into actually hurting themselves.  I could do without the extra paperwork.”

Deciding that if Coulson was going to treat him like an actual human being, the least Clint could do was leave him in peace while he was busy.  “Yes, sir,” he said, actually genuinely meaning it for the first time in a long while.

“Oh, one other thing,” Coulson said, stopping Clint as he reached the door.

“Sir?” Clint asked warily, turning around to face his handler.

“Did you _really_ call Fury a pirate?”

Coulson didn’t look angry and there seemed to be genuine curiosity and a hint of amusement in his eyes.  Relaxing a little, Clint smirked.  “I might have,” he admitted.  “Although, in my defense, I didn’t actually intend for anyone to hear me.”

Coulson smiled.  Actually smiled.  Clint was entranced by the way his gorgeous eyes warmed and his faint crow’s feet deepened.  The expression transformed his face and turned him from the stern-faced Agent Coulson into someone approachable and faintly adorable.  Clint belatedly realized he might be in serious trouble.

“Next time, can I be in the room?” Coulson said, that cute smile still lighting up his face.  “I promise I’ll stop Fury from shooting you.”

Clint cleared his throat and attempted to keep his thoughts professional.  It didn’t work.  “Sure,” he said.  “I’ll remember that.”

“You do that, Barton,” Coulson said and Clint slipped out of the office, suddenly haunted by the memory of blue eyes lit with laughter.

*~*

**The Jefferson Memorial, Washington D.C., 2003**

Phil bit back a sigh.

It was cold, snowing and his contact was late.

Phil grimaced faintly and shoved his gloved hands deeper into the pockets of his coat.  It was cold enough that his breath was clouding in the air and he could feel the chill of the winter’s evening sinking through his clothes.  His boots crunched across the dirty snow and he glanced around, before heading up the stairs into the Jefferson Memorial.  Even out of the wind, it wasn’t much warmer than outside.  Absently, he brushed the snow from his hair and glanced up at President Jefferson.  He was alone inside the memorial, the late hour and the snow keeping even the most determined visitor from venturing out.  Phil himself wouldn’t want to be out if he had any other choice, but for a mission Phil could and had dealt with worse things than cold.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the prickle between his shoulder blades.  Even knowing exactly who was doing the watching didn’t particularly help the eerie sensation of being watched by a sniper.  “Relax, Coulson,” Barton drawled over the comm.

Phil scanned the area outside the memorial for his contact, even as his mind automatically cataloged escape routes, potential weapons and the threat level of the couple walking in the distance.  It wasn’t something he could – or wanted to – turn off; that ability had saved his life and Nick Fury’s more times than he could count back in the Rangers and his early days at SHIELD.  It had also been part of the reason Phil’s last three relationships had fallen apart, but Phil only counted that as a negative when he was feeling particularly sorry for himself.

“I am relaxed,” he said, even though he knew Clint could probably see the tension in his shoulders and would spot the lie.

Barton snorted.  “If that’s your version of relaxed, sir, I think we need to work on your definition,” he said.  He paused for a beat, before dropping his voice.  “I could help you with that.”

Phil completely ignored the effect of that low, rough-edged tone and the shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.  He was a grown man and a professional.  “Less flirting, more radio silence, Hawkeye,” he said.

None of Barton’s other handlers had reported blatant flirting as one of his quirks, but Phil was pretty sure it was just yet another of Barton’s ways of pushing the boundaries.  After Phil hadn’t seemed outwardly bothered by Barton’s usual methods of insubordination, Phil supposed the sniper had had to get creative.  Phil would give him points for effort.  The flirting had definitely been persistent.

A few moments later, Phil caught sight of a hunched figure walking towards the memorial.  “Target on approach,” Barton’s voice warned him.

Instinctively, Phil’s fingers twitched, wanting to reach for his holstered gun despite the fact that Barton was watching over him from his hidden perch.  It was nothing against Barton and his skill; Phil just felt more comfortable in dangerous situations with a weapon in his hand.  For a moment, Phil’s mind wondered how many hideous puns Barton would make if he heard that, which was a clear sign he was going insane.  As the figure moved closer, Phil recognized his contact and relaxed his guard a fraction.  Even so, he sank back into the shadows inside the memorial just in case his contact was being followed.

“Target appears to be alone,” Barton said a moment later.  “No tail that I can spot either.”

“Confirmed,” Phil whispered back.

One of the benefits of having Barton come along on the mission had been Barton’s uncanny ability to disappear into his surroundings.  Phil knew where he was and yet still couldn’t spot a trace of the sniper.  It seemed even more impressive to Phil considering he’d let Clint come armed with his preferred bow; Phil had reports from Barton’s other SHIELD missions to verify how good he was with a rifle and Phil had to admit he was curious to see how much better Barton would be with his favored weapon.  It had taken Phil a little over an hour to read Barton’s file after Nick had given it to him, but only about ten minutes to realize what he was dealing with.  Nick had been right; Barton had a hell of a lot of potential and Phil was looking forward to seeing what Barton could do.

“Sheridan,” Phil greeted his contact, stepping out of the shadows when the other man was close enough.

Agent Sheridan whirled around at the sound of Phil’s voice, his hand automatically moving to his own weapon.  When Sheridan recognized Phil, he relaxed, although his brown eyes remained watchful.  “Shit, Coulson,” he said.  “You scared me.”

“Kind of a jumpy fellow, isn’t he?” Barton quipped over the comm.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Phil asked Sheridan mildly, even as his whole body tensed.  “Should I prepare for trouble?”

“No,” Sheridan said.

Phil frowned slightly.  “If you need an extraction, Agent...” he began.

“I’m good, Coulson,” Sheridan interrupted, rolling his eyes.  “I know you don’t get out from behind your desk much, but we’re safe.”

“You know, sir, I can easily put an arrow in Sheridan’s ass from here,” Barton said over the comm.  “Just say the word.”

The thought of letting Barton do just that almost made Phil smile.  Agent Sheridan might have been an undercover agent allied with SHIELD, but he was an ass.  Sadly, he was also an ass SHIELD needed.  “Do you have information to pass on?” Phil asked.

Sheridan scowled.  “Of course,” he said.  “I uploaded the encrypted files to the usual website this morning.”

“And the rest of it?” Phil said with a raised eyebrow; Sheridan wouldn’t have requested a meet in person if he’d already passing on all the information.

“I heard a few rumors about HYDRA’s recent movements,” Sheridan said.  “Nothing big, but I figured you’d want to know.”

“Any information on HYDRA could potentially be useful,” Phil agreed.

“Yeah, sure, I have it...” Sheridan said, patting his pockets a little as he looked for something.

Phil only took his eyes off Sheridan for a second, but when he caught movement on the edge of his gaze, Phil found himself reacting before his brain had finished working out what was happening.  A rough hand clamped down over Phil’s mouth and yanked him backwards, but Phil was prepared enough that the hand heading for his neck was no longer a surprise.  Phil was vaguely aware of Barton cursing over the comm as he twisted to face Sheridan and saw the scornful expression on the other agent’s face.  Phil could also see the hypodermic needle in Sheridan’s hand that Phil had caught inches from his skin.  With a jolt of fear, Phil redoubled his efforts to keep the needle away from his neck.

A second later, Sheridan went suddenly limp as an arrow slammed into his throat.  Phil let go of the body with a blink, before turning his gaze in the direction he thought the arrow had come from.  It was on an angle slightly lower than Barton’s perch and when Phil turned back, he realized that half an inch or so lower and the arrow would have slammed into Phil’s shoulder instead.

Holy shit, Barton was good.

“Nice shot,” he told the sniper, trying to keep his sudden awe out of his voice.

Barton was silent for a moment.  “Thank you, sir,” he said softly, not a hint of his usual teasing or mockery in his tone.  Phil then heard the sound of Barton clearing his throat and realized from Barton’s reaction that none of his other handlers must have given him praise for a job well done.  Phil resolved to change that.

“So, Sheridan was a double agent, huh?” Barton said.

“It seems so,” Phil agreed, knowing he needed to call it in and get a SHIELD clean up team out there as soon as possible.  “Probably working for HYDRA.”

Crouching down, Phil searched Sheridan’s pockets for anything interesting, before retrieving the arrow.  He knew Barton would have done it, but something told Phil that the sniper might appreciate the gesture.  Then he headed outside to call it in.

“You know, there was at least one good thing to come out of this mission, Boss,” Barton said, landing silently beside Phil.  Phil didn’t jump or curse, but only because that reaction had been trained out of him; his heart still lurched a little in surprise, even though nothing showed on his face.  He held out the arrow to Barton as he looked the sniper over.  Phil had to admit, if only to himself, that Barton made the simple black SHIELD field uniform look good.  His cargo pants were tucked into his favorite pair of combat boots and he’d turned up the collar of his black, SHIELD-issue jacket.

“I know I’m going to regret this,” Phil said, “but what exactly would that be, Barton?”

“It proves beyond a doubt that the word doesn’t implode when you wear jeans,” Barton said with a grin.

*~*


	3. 2004

**Marriott Hotel, Beijing, 2004**

Clint was exhausted.

Normally, he’d have thrown a variety of creative expletives into that sentence, but his brain was too tired to cooperate.  It was a combination of being yanked off his last op, pretty much literally right out of his nest, before being crammed into a commercial flight full of crying babies and flying halfway around the world.  Clint had never been to Beijing before, not for SHIELD and not before, but not even that fact had managed to keep him more than barely conscious during the long taxi ride from the airport.

The contrast when he’d stepped off the plane had been jarring; Clint had gone from the warm humidity and fluid Spanish of southern Ecuador to the bite of cold that came just before the first snow of winter and the harsh snap of rapidly spoken Mandarin.  Clint was used to travelling and it was years since he’d had anywhere to even pretend to call home, but this had been a bit extreme even for him.  So far, the only good thing about being assigned to the mission in Beijing at the last minute was that Clint had somehow rated his own room, rather than being crammed in with a junior agent.  Clint wasn’t used to it, but he was going to enjoy it while it lasted.

Truthfully, though, Clint didn’t mind sharing his room on missions, but only with certain people.  He was on Agent Coulson’s preferred team now and he was slowly beginning to learn how to trust other people more than just begrudgingly.  Jasper had persisted in his efforts to befriend Clint and Clint had finally given in.  He liked rooming with Jasper on missions because the other agent was hilarious when he tried, even if the TV was _always_ turned onto some sort of cooking show.  Of course, the best part about sharing on a mission was sharing a room with Coulson himself.  Coulson was a senior agent and he could claim his own room and no one would question it.  Sometimes he did, but more often than not, he grabbed a room for himself and Clint, even when there was extra space.

Clint and Coulson had fallen into an easy sort of rapport after their mission to the Jefferson Memorial the year before.  Unlike his previous handlers, Coulson didn’t try to dictate everything Clint did and more importantly, Coulson let him pick his own perch and listened seriously when Clint had problems with the mission plan.  In return, Clint tried to keep his sarcastic and smartass comments to a minimum unless he knew Coulson was as bored as he was and attended all the training courses Coulson suggested.  Clint was now fluent in French and German and knew how to fly just about everything with wings or rotors, which was pretty cool.

There were other advantages to sharing a room with Coulson, even if it was only in the middle of a mission.  For starters, it meant Coulson trusted Clint as much as Clint trusted him, which was pretty fucking novel.  Clint liked to think he was also one of a select few that had seen the infamous Agent Coulson looking a little soft around the edges.  He never relaxed completely, not on a mission, but Clint _had_ seen him dressed in a pair of worn sleep pants hugging a pillow to his chest, fast asleep.  If that particular image had been seared into his brain and made Clint long for things he couldn’t have, well he wasn’t telling anyone.  Most of the time he tried to ignore his more indecent thoughts because Clint was pretty sure inappropriate hard-ons would ruin his and Coulson’s asset-handler relationship and he didn’t want to do that.

Opening the door to his hotel room, Clint dumped his duffle bag and weapons case by the door and did a fast but thorough sweep of the small living area, bedroom and bathroom for anything out of place.  When he figured the place was as safe as it was going to get, Clint stashed the gun into the holster he wore at the small of his back and hid a knife behind the headboard of his bed.  Safety precautions in place, Clint debated whether or not he could stay upright long enough to grab a shower.  Knowing his recent run of luck, whoever his handler was on this mission, they would probably wake him up at the ass-crack of dawn with orders, so Clint grabbed sweatpants out of his duffle and stripped down for a shower.

None one had actually told him anything before he’d left his last mission other than the fact he was needed in Beijing.  Clint missed Coulson, because with Coulson as his handler, he’d know what was going on.  He’d been on several missions without the senior agent lately and while it was great that SHIELD had finally decided Clint and his skills could be trusted more, he missed the sound of Coulson’s calm voice in his ear and his dry sense of humor that broke up the monotony of lying in wait.  At least now SHIELD let him use his bow more often than not, so there was that.

The hot water from the shower helped relax Clint’s tense muscles and he indulged in the constant water pressure and clean bathroom until he was about to fall asleep on his feet.  He didn’t remember staggering to the bed or pulling on underwear, but when he snapped awake about eight hours later, Clint was wearing pants and sprawled across the double bed, so he must have at some point.  For a moment, he blinked, trying to work out what had woken him up just as there was another sharp knock at the door.  Grabbing his gun from the bedside table, Clint made his way to the door to his hotel room, but before he could ask who it was or unhook the chair underneath the handle, he heard a familiar voice through the door.

“Agent Barton, may I come in?”

Clint paused and couldn’t keep the grin off his face.  He opened the door and for a moment, Clint let his eyes linger on Coulson’s familiar well-tailored suit and the way, as always, his blue eyes were calm and utterly sure.  “Boss, you are a sight for sore eyes,” he said.

Coulson arched an eyebrow at the greeting as Clint stepped aside to let him into the hotel room.  Those piercing blue eyes assessed Clint as he did, as if cataloguing the changes since Coulson had last seen him, before moving to scope out the room.

“So what’s the mission?” Clint drawled, wondering if he’d be pushing his luck if he asked for a coffee.  “I assume by the speed at which you yanked me out of Ecuador you need someone dead?”

Coulson raised both eyebrows this time.  “Martinez didn’t tell you?” he said, before he frowned slightly; it was an expression Clint knew well.  Martinez was going to get it.

“I requested your presence because I was pulling together the whole team and I need you as backup,” Coulson explained.

Clint smiled faintly even though he wasn’t going to enjoy lying on rooftops in this cold.  At least with Maria and Jasper on the mission it was bound to be fun.  Jasper couldn’t keep his mouth shut around Maria and for some reason the perfect and Coulson-like calm Maria had disappeared like smoke whenever Jasper pushed her buttons, which was _all the time_.  Clint was close to just locking the two of them in a room together and be done with it.  At least he’d have Coulson to talk to about the constant bickering.  Lying on freezing roofs might be uncomfortable, but he’d have _hours_ to talk to Coulson over their private channel.  Clint was kind of looking forward to it.

Coulson’s eyebrow arched again as he eyes moved over Clint’s half-naked appearance again.  “I assume you did not bring a suit with you?” he said.

Despite the sleep, Clint was still exhausted after the last few days and he felt his mouth open before his brain had a chance to even think about filtering the words.  “Sure, I always pack Armani when I have a mission in the slums of Ecuador,” he said sarcastically.

Then he blinked as his brain caught up with what he’d said.  “Suit?” he echoed.  “I thought I was backup?”

For a microsecond, Coulson looked amused.  “You are,” he said.  “I just want you on the inside of the German Embassy with the rest of us this time.”

Clint scrubbed a hand over his face as he processed Coulson’s words.  “Embassy?” he asked, before he shook his head when Coulson looked like he was about to explain it.  “Look, Boss, I don’t know about you, but I need coffee before I can handle an in depth briefing about why we’re here and who I’m supposed to shoot, okay?”

Coulson arched an eyebrow in reply, but his expression was faintly amused again.  “If I let you have coffee will you at least pretend as if you will keep the smartass comments to a minimum, Barton?” he asked.

“I can’t give you any promises, sir,” Clint quipped with a smirk, “but it definitely won’t hurt your chances.”

Coulson actually rolled his eyes.  “Then put on a shirt and let’s go.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Clint said with a grin.

*~*

**German Embassy, Beijing, 2004**

“Tell me again why I’m dressed in a monkey suit?”

Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Barton’s complaint, but only barely.  Keeping his polite smile fixed in place, he continued to scan the richly decorated room and the equally richly decorated guests.  “Have you ever seen a waiter in jeans at one of these things?” Phil replied, feigning taking a sip of champagne to cover his mouth as he spoke.  “Now be a good boy and smile as you pass out the hors d’oeuvres.”

The rough sound of Barton’s chuckle sounded over the comm.  “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled.

The German Embassy in Beijing had pulled out all the stops for their ritzy party and it hadn’t been easy for SHIELD to get their hands on invitations.  It had been even harder to get Clint’s alias cleared as a waiter, but considering how hard it had been to tap into the security feed, they’d needed as many eyes inside they could get.  Hence why Phil and Maria were currently circulating as guests and Barton was playing waiter.  The increased security had less to do with the party and more to do with the Ambassador’s connections to HYDRA – and the prototype weapons designs the embassy was holding before it could make a deal with a powerful engineering firm in Beijing.  SHIELD had an agent in the Ambassador’s staff and the party was supposed to be a way for Agent Donahue to contact them and tell them where they could find the weapons designs.

“You two do realize we can all hear you, right?” Jasper said from where he was watching everything via security feed from the building across the street.

Phil ignored Jasper as he scanned the crowd again, an uneasy feeling growing in his stomach.  They been here for two hours now and there had been absolutely no sign of Donahue.  It was making Phil edgy and his instincts were telling him they were missing something.  “Do you think we have a problem?” Maria asked as she slipped up beside him, sipping her own glass of expensive champagne.

Shifting his gaze away from the crowd, Phil placed his untouched glass of champagne on the tray of a passing waiter.  “I’m not sure,” he answered Maria quietly.  “Have you seen any sign of Donahue?”

“No, nothing,” Maria answered with a faint trace of irritation in her voice.  “While I enjoy dressing up as much as the next girl, I’m going to be pissed if he doesn’t show up.”

For a moment, Phil frowned.  “I’m thinking that its more than probable Donahue isn’t coming,” he said.  “Something may have happened to him.”

Maria’s eyes turned grim even though her face never lost its polite expression.  “So what do we do now?” she asked in a low voice, glancing at Phil.

“We need to get past security and into the offices,” Phil said.  “Donahue mentioned the prototype designs were being stored in a special vault the last time he made contact.  If we can gain access to the security control center, we might be able to find it.”

“Let’s do it then,” Maria agreed.

Nodding, Phil followed her as she began weaving her way through the crowd to the opposite end of the ballroom.  “Hawkeye, keep circulating and watching for Donahue.  Tell us if you see anything out of the ordinary,” he said quietly.

“Yes, sir,” Barton replied.

“The control center for the CCTV system should be just downstairs,” Jasper told them and Phil could hear the faint tapping of computer keys over the comm.

“Copy that,” Phil said.

Phil hung back as he and Maria reached the guards at the door leading out of the ballroom and into the offices of the embassy.  Maria took a moment to adjust her hair and dress before she sauntered forwards with a flirty smile and deliberate flash of leg directed at the guards and within seconds she had them both distracted.  Taking his opportunity, Phil slipped silently out of the ballroom.  Less than a minute later, Maria joined him, shifting the skirt of her dress back into place.  Smiling despite himself, Phil shook his head.  Maria rolled her eyes.   “I know,” she whispered.  “It’s embarrassingly easy sometimes, isn’t it?”

“Why don’t you say that again when we’ve dealt with the CCTV system?” Phil said.

Maria smirked.  “Oh, I will,” she said.

“The control room for the CCTV cameras should be just down the stairs to your right,” Jasper reported, “but it needs a keycard for access.”

Phil glanced to his right and saw the grand staircase leading down to the floor below.  Sneaking down the lushly carpeted steps, Phil paused towards the bottom when he noticed the patrolling guards.  He bit back a curse as he sank into the shadows and watched their rotations and attempted to map out a route to the door leading to the embassy offices, but the patrolling guards past it too often.  “I don’t think we can sneak past the guards,” Phil said quietly when Maria crouched down beside him.  “We’re going to need a distraction.”

“I vote someone gets naked,” Barton said.  “Is someone going to get naked?”

Maria rolled her eyes at Phil, both of them ignoring Barton, before she straightened and smoothed out her dress.  “Watch and learn, boys,” she said.

Then, with a wicked smirk, Maria walked right down the stairs and into the middle of the patrol guards, swaying slightly as if she’d had a little too much to drink.  “Ooh,” she said, stumbling a little into one of the guards.  “Hello.  You couldn’t tell a girl where the bathroom is, could you?”

Phil smiled as he watched Maria deftly slid her hand into the guard’s pocket and draw out his keycard without the guard noticing.  She palmed it, still leaning against him in both an attempt to distract him and carry on the illusion that she was a little drunk.  Keeping an eye on Maria and the guards, Phil slipped into the shadows at the base of the stairs and wove his way towards the door to the inner embassy on silent feet.  He paused on his way just to Maria’s left and still hidden in the shadows, before reaching out to take the keycard Maria held out behind her back.

Seconds later, Phil slipped through the door into the inner embassy.  There was another door directly ahead that led to the offices, but Phil instead turned to the large metal doors to his right with the electronic lock; the cameras had to be dealt with before they could go anywhere.  “I’m entering the control room now,” he said softly.

The doors slid open with a soft hiss.  There was only one guard inside the control room and Phil had him in a sleeper hold before the guard could turn and realize that Phil wasn’t one of his friends.  The guard struggled for a few seconds before he slid into unconsciousness; he’d wake up with a killer headache in a few hours, but he’d live.  Dragging the body to the corner of the room, out of sight of the door, Phil stripped the guard of his jacket and keycard, before slipping out of his own suit jacket.  The disguise wasn’t much, but combined with the cap, it might throw someone off for a few seconds if Phil was discovered.

“Knock knock,” Maria’s voice said quietly over the comm a moment later.

Walking back to the door to the control room, Phil hit the button to open it from this side to find Maria waiting for him on the other.  He handed her the spare keycard as she walked in.  “Have you found anything?” she asked him.

“Not yet,” Phil replied, moving back to the screens showing the camera feeds for the entire embassy.

His eyes searched the screens, looking for the location to the vault and any sign of Donahue.  According to the mission intel, the vault was somewhere on the top floor of the embassy, but the analysts hadn’t been able to tell exactly where.  Donahue had been going to let them know when he made contact with them at the party.  Then Phil’s gaze caught something and he wanted to roll his eyes at the melodramatics of it.  “Found it,” he said.

“Where?” Maria asked, coming up behind him.

Phil slid her a sidelong look as he tried not to smirk.  “Well, Athena,” he said using Maria’s codename, “how many guards do you keep outside your library?”

Maria blinked, her eyes going to the image Phil had already spotted.  Four armed guards stood outside the library doors; Phil was pretty sure that there wasn’t usually a need to keep people out with that much firepower, not unless the library contained more than just books.  “Well, I guess I know where I’m going,” Maria said.

Phil nodded as he watched Maria slip off her high heels.  “I’ll stay here and work my magic on the cameras,” he said.

“I’m heading to the library,” Maria said, more so that Barton and Jasper would know what she was doing than for Phil, but he nodded anyway.

“Just don’t take four hours like last time, Athena,” Jasper said over the comm.  “My ass is freezing over here.”

Maria rolled her eyes as she pulled out her gun.  Absently, Phil wondered why it was that his preferred team was full of smartasses.  He wasn’t sure what that said about him and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Don’t wait up,” Maria shot back with a distinctly evil smirk, before she disappeared out the door.

*~*

A polite smile fixed on his face, Clint scanned the crowd again as he held his tray of champagne aloft.  He could hear the mission chatter in his ear as Maria headed towards the library and hopefully the vault containing the prototype weapon designs.  Even though he knew Coulson and Maria could handle it, Clint was still itching to _do something_ other than hand drunk, rich assholes more champagne.  The fact that there had been no sign of Donahue _at all_ wasn’t helping his antsy feeling either.

“Hawkeye, can you see anything strange where you are?” Jasper asked over the comm.

“Nothing on the mission front,” Clint said quietly, heading back towards the kitchens now that his tray was empty again, “but I swear the woman to my right has a dog in her purse.  Who does that?”

It was then that Clint saw her.

The black lace dress she wore definitely held a designer label and Clint was willing to bet the diamonds at her ears weren’t cheap either, yet watching the way she moved gracefully through the crowd around her made Clint think of a sleek predator.  Or maybe a femme fatale with her bright red lipstick and the way her equally bold red hair fell in a cascade over one shoulder.  Whoever she was, she was absolutely stunning – and completely dangerous.

Clint blinked as the woman disappeared into the crowd again.  “We need to move up our timetable,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” Coulson asked over the comm immediately.

“I think we have a little competition,” Clint replied grimly, watching the mysterious woman slip through the doors into the kitchens.

“Did you find Donahue?” Coulson asked.

“Negative,” Clint said, weaving his way through the crowded ballroom towards the kitchens as fast as he could, “but I did find an enchanting goddess.  She’s about five four, red hair and gorgeous, but definitely not a guest.”

There was silence over the comm for a beat which Clint was beginning to realize was because Coulson was swearing in his head.  “Hawkeye…” he began.

“Already on it, sir,” Clint said, pushing open the doors to the kitchens.

He scanned the chaos quickly, ignoring the chefs and other waiters calling out to him and tried to spot where the woman had gone.  Mentally, Clint pulled up the building blueprints he’d studied, before spotting a door in the corner than led to one of the service elevators that was just swinging shut.  Clint cursed.  “She’s heading inside the embassy,” he reported, moving to follow.

By the time Clint shoved the door open, he was already yanking off his bowtie, grateful the waiters uniform he’d been forced to wear had only included a waistcoat and not a jacket.  He rolled up his sleeves as he hurried down the corridor, pausing only to grab his bow from where he’d stashed it above one of the ceiling tiles.  “Stairs,” he said, barely pausing when he spotted the emergency stairs just beside the service elevator and slinging his quiver over his shoulder.  “Heading up now.”

“Copy that, Hawkeye,” Coulson replied.  “I see you.”

Clint smiled faintly at Coulson’s words as he took the stairs two at a time.  “Your mysterious new friend has hit the fifth floor,” Jasper’s voice crackled over the comm.  “It looks like she’s heading straight for the library.”

“Athena, what’s your status?” Coulson asked.

Clint ignored Maria’s answer as he carefully slipped through the door to the fifth floor, trusting Coulson to warn him if he was needed.  He nocked an arrow, his eyes scanning the shadowed offices around him.  A second later, he heard Jasper curse in his ear and felt his adrenaline surge in response.  “Shit, I just lost the surveillance feed,” Jasper said.

“The control room just went dark, too,” Coulson said.

Clint opened his mouth to say something, but froze when he felt the press of what could only be a gun against the back of his neck, before it retreated.  “Who are you?” a female voice asked bluntly.

“I could ask you the same question,” Clint said levelly, trying to suppress the shiver that went down his spine.  He carefully eased the arrow from his bowstring and moved his hands out to the sides until the woman could see them in an attempt to be as unthreatening as possible.

“What do you want?” the woman demanded.

Conscious of the gun that was no doubt pointed at the back of his head, Clint tried to figure out how he was going to get out of this.  “Again, I feel like that’s another question I should be asking you,” he quipped.

 “Who are you working for?” the woman demanded, sounding like she was beginning to lose her patience; truthfully, Clint was surprised she hadn’t shot him yet.

In his ear, Clint could hear the sounds of Coulson moving, the undercurrent of worry in his voice getting more obvious every time he said Clint’s codename.  “Hawkeye, I’m heading up the stairs behind you,” he said.

Clint felt something warm in his chest at the words.  He trusted Coulson to have his back, but he couldn’t help the feeling of being _wanted_ every time Coulson proved it.  “My name is Clint Barton and I work for SHIELD,” Clint said, deciding to take the risk now that Coulson was coming for him.

There was a pause behind him and Clint could sense the woman’s slight confusion.  “The infamous Hawkeye?” she said.  Then her voice hardened.  “You’re a mercenary.”

Before Clint could reply, he heard the sound he’d been dreading – the crash of breaking glass.  Whoever had cut the power to the CCTV system had hit the fifth floor, probably from the roof.  A moment later, Clint heard a series of thuds that could only be the sound of booted feet hitting the floor further down the corridor.  They sounded like they were just around the corner and Clint didn’t think that would protect him and his new friend for much longer.  Taking the risk that the woman was distracted by the new arrivals, Clint pivoted sharply and used his forearm to deflect the gun that had been aimed at his head; his femme fatale from downstairs glared back at him, but didn’t shoot him, which Clint was going to count as a victory.  “We need to move,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The woman looked surprised for a moment, as if she hadn’t expected Clint to do that.  Clint knew it was probably insane to trust her not to shoot him, but Clint’s instincts hadn’t led him wrong yet.  The woman could have shot him before and she hadn’t.  Turning his attention back to the men around the corner and sinking back into the shadows, Clint nocked an arrow again and let out a long, slow breath.  He heard movement to his left and glanced over to see the woman moving to the side, her gun now pointed at the floor.  She gave him a short nod when she noticed him looking.  With a nod back, Clint crept forward on silent feet until he could peer around the corner.  He spotted five men outside the library and resisted the urge to swear.

All five men held flashlights, meaning they’d probably cut the electricity to the building as well as the CCTV system.  As Clint watched, one of the men kicked open the door to the library and all five entered the room cautiously, as if expecting someone to be waiting for them.  From their controlled movements, he guessed that they had military training and the men were all obviously armed with assault rifles.  “Coulson, an assault team just entered the library,” he said quietly into his comm.  “Coulson?”

He felt more than saw the woman give him a really sharp look at his words, but Clint didn’t have time to explain.  He just hoped she could roll with the punches, because Clint was pretty sure that the comms were dead, which meant the team was probably jamming the signal.  “Well, we just lost back up,” he muttered.

Hearing Maria’s shout, followed by the sound of gunfire made Clint’s stomach clench with a sudden stab of fear.  He slipped through the broken library doors, careful not to alert the assault team to the fact that aria had backup and hoped he wasn’t too late.  He turned left, taking out one of the bad guys, before ducking behind a nearby bookshelf as a second bad guy retaliated by opening fire.  “Shit, there’s another one!” he shouted.

Clint glanced around the bookshelf, firing another arrow and taking out the second bad guy, before pivoting and sprinting back behind the cover of the bookshelf again.  He couldn’t see any sign of the woman, so he figured she’d used her chance to disappear.  Moving again, Clint peered around the other end of the bookshelf.  Just beyond where Clint was hiding, one of the men had Maria around the neck from behind.  Her hands were scrabbling at the arm around her throat as he choked her and Clint felt his anger surge in response.  Clint let out another breath and drew back his bowstring.  A second later, the man was dead.  Coughing a little as she sucked in deep breaths, Maria immediately grabbed her dropped gun and whirled, shooting another member of the assault team as Coulson appeared like the fucking ninja he was and shot the fifth in the chest.

Sensing movement to his right, Clint caught a flash of red hair and immediately followed.  “Hold it right there,” he said in a low voice, his arrow aimed straight at the woman as she froze in her attempts to climb out the window.

Slowly, she turned, her arms held away from her body.  Clint couldn’t see what she’d done with her gun, but he had no doubt that she could reach it and several other weapons in seconds.  “Are you going to shoot me?” she said.

“Only if you try to shoot me first,” Clint told her truthfully.

The woman looked a little skeptical, but she kept her hands where Clint could see them.  “Even though you know who I am?” she said.

For a moment, Clint thought about bluffing, but he knew the woman would see right through it.  She wasn’t wrong either; it had taken him a while, but her red hair was her calling card and Clint knew he was staring down Natalia Romanova, the Black Widow.  “Even though I know who you are,” he confirmed.

The Black Widow cocked her head to the side as she watched him.  “You’re not what I expected,” she said.

Clint smirked a little.  “I get that a lot,” he said.

For a moment, Clint could have sworn he saw a flash of amusement in those hard eyes.  Then he watched as the Black Widow slowly reached down to pull something out of her impressive cleavage.  Clint very carefully did not allow his eyes to drop from her face and ignored the way the corners of her mouth twitched up in a smirk of her own.  She raised a hand to show Clint what she held and Clint blinked at the sight of the small memory drive.  “This is everything your agent knew.  He hid it before they killed him,” she said.  “Perhaps you will actually do the right thing with it.”

Slowly, Clint lowered his bow.  He nodded in understanding, because he did.  He’d been there, seeing all that was wrong with the world and trying to make up in some small way for the part you’d played in it.  For a second, the Widow’s eyes softened and she nodded back.  Clint watched as she disappeared out the window, leaving the small memory drive behind on the sill and sighed.

He had no idea how he was going to explain this one to Coulson.

*~*

**SHIELD Headquarters, New York, 2004**

“We have a problem.”

Phil looked up from the file he’d been reading while he waited for the coffee pot to brew at the sound of Maria’s grim voice.  He raised an eyebrow.  “We always have a problem,” he said.  “Would you care to be more specific?”

The glare Maria shot him in reply was clearly irritated.  As usual, Maria looked calm and put-together, but the frown on her face made Phil very sure he didn’t want to incur her wrath.  Since he obviously wasn’t getting out of whatever conversation Maria wanted to have with him, he turned back to the coffee pot as it finished and poured himself a cup.  It sounded like he was going to need it.  It was that kind of afternoon.  “What did Barton do that pissed you off this time?” he asked as they left the break room.

“Aside from his usual trick of stalking people using the ventilation, I’m not aware of Barton doing anything,” Maria replied.

“You can ask him _not_ to stalk you through the vents, you know,” Phil said.

This time, it was Maria who arched an eyebrow.  “You do realize _you’re_ the only person he listens to when they ask that, right?” she said, holding open the door to her sparsely decorated office.

Phil blinked, because no, he hadn’t known that.  “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, anyway,” Maria continued.

Taking a seat opposite her as Maria took her own seat behind her desk, Phil gave her a wry smile.  “You want to talk to me about the Black Widow,” he said.

For a moment, Maria looked surprised, before the grim expression claimed her face again.  “So you did recognize her in Beijing,” she said.

“No, actually,” Phil replied.  “Barton was the one that recognized her.”  He arched an eyebrow when Maria looked like she was about to protest.  “We have already debriefed Director Fury about it,” he added.

Maria sat back in her chair.  “I hope Barton appreciates that you stuck your neck out for him,” she said.

“I protect my team,” Phil said mildly.

Maria cracked a sudden grin.  “Oh, don’t pull that bureaucratic bullshit with me, Phil,” she said.  “You like him.”

“He’s a sarcastic little shit,” Phil said with his own grin.  “Of course I like him.”

Laughing, Maria shook her head.  “If only the junior agents knew what you were really like,” she said, before she sobered.  “What are we going to do about the Black Widow?”

“I’m going to trust my asset,” Phil said.

Maria shot him a very unimpressed look.  “I’m not talking about trusting him,” she said.  “I’m talking about how we stop Fury from shooting his ass the next time the Black Widow shows up and he starts helping her.”

Phil blinked in surprise, not expecting Maria to have come to the same conclusions he had.  “He’s Hawkeye,” Maria said softly.  “For all his issues, he’s a loyal SHIELD agent and the Black Widow is currently number four on our shoot-to-kill list.  If he didn’t take the shot, he has a good reason.”

“Yes,” Phil said, because it was true.

“And when she shows up again?”

Phil shot Maria a small smile and a _look_.  “Then we deal with it when it happens,” he said.

Maria snorted.  “Are you telling me the legendary Agent Coulson hasn’t devised six contingency plans already?” she said.

“Contingency plans only work when you can predict what the people involved are going to do,” Phil replied.  “I never have any idea what Barton’s going to fucking do next.”

Maria grinned.  “It’s good to know someone’s capable of keeping you on your toes.”

Phil gave in and rolled his eyes, making Maria laugh again.  “Just let me know if there’s anything you need me to do,” she said finally.

“Thank you,” Phil told her.

He was still thinking about their conversation when he got back to his own office about ten minutes later.  He resisted the urge to smile when he pushed open the door to find Barton sprawled with his usual feline grace across his the couch in the corner, a half-empty packet of Doritos beside him.  “Nice to see you’re working hard, Barton,” Phil said dryly as he pushed the door almost shut behind him.

Barton grinned unrepentantly.  “I _am_ working,” he said.  “I’m keeping a ‘friendly and approachable presence in the SHIELD offices’ so that junior agents feel they can come to me when they need advice.”

Phil raised an eyebrow as Barton shoved another Dorito into his mouth.  “By which you mean you’re hiding in my office so the agent in charge of the behavioral training seminar you’re supposed to be in can’t find you.”

“She wanted to make me hug someone, Coulson,” Barton muttered darkly, his face morphing into a scowl before he looked up.  “Do you need me to go?  Or are you just going to tell me not to get crumbs all over your couch?”

“No,” Phil replied.  “You’re the one that’s going to have to sit in them when you inevitably get crumbs everywhere, anyway.”

Barton grinned again and made a show of squirming even further into the couch cushions.  Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he settled at his desk to do the work that was piling up.  “So, Fury asked me a strange question today,” Barton said, breaking the silence that had fallen.

“Hmm?” Phil said, before the words registered and he felt himself tense.

“Yeah,” Barton said, sounding amused.  Phil looked up to find Barton’s eyes watching him mischievously.  “He asked me what the most creative swear word I’ve ever heard you use was.”

Phil sighed quietly.  Nick was up to something and Phil didn’t know whether to be annoyed or relieved it didn’t seem to have anything to do with the Black Widow.  “The Director likes to do that sometimes,” he said.  “It’s his way of telling who still sees me as a bland bureaucrat and who doesn’t.”

Barton hummed thoughtfully.  “I figured as much,” he said, “which is why I told him that Agent Coulson doesn’t ever swear and if he thought differently, he might want to make an appointment with medical.”

Phil couldn’t quite stop himself from smiling.  “I bet Fury took that well,” he said.

“His reaction was beautiful, sir,” Barton said with a grin.

Trying to return his attention back to the paperwork in front of him and not the distracting man on his couch, Phil inevitably found his thoughts drifting back to the conversation he’d had with Maria.  With a sigh, he set down his pen.  “Barton,” he began quietly.  “If I ask you a question, will you give me an answer?”

On the couch, Barton sat up, looking wary.  Phil didn’t blame him.  He usually preferred to wait until Barton was ready to tell him things, but Phil knew himself well enough to know that he was going to dwell on this until he got his answers.  At Barton’s wary nod, he offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile.  “In Beijing, you had the Black Widow in your sights,” he said.  “Why didn’t you take the shot?”

Barton bristled for a moment, before he seemed to realize that Phil was genuinely asking, not trying to reprimand him.  “She had the drop on me earlier that mission and she didn’t shoot me.  It seemed kind of rude not to return the favor,” he said.

“And?” Phil asked, knowing there was more to it than that; more than what Barton had told him in the mission debrief.

“What do you want me to say, sir?” Barton grumbled.  “The reason isn’t exactly logical.”  He paused for a moment.  “I’m not going to regret not shooting her,” he added.  “Not when it turned out she was helping Donahue.”

Phil nodded.  That had been one of the more surprising parts of the mission to realize the Black Widow had actually been helping Agent Donahue and SHIELD.  He’d made a point of going back over the intelligence and Beijing hadn’t been the first time the Black Widow had been actively working against organizations like HYDRA either.  “You trusted your instincts,” he said finally.

“Yeah,” Barton agreed, still tense as he watched Phil.

“It’s a good thing you did,” Phil told him, making Barton blink at him in momentary confusion.  “They haven’t let us down yet.  Just…”  He paused.  “If you’re going to do something that sounds a little crazy, like disappearing with a wanted assassin, I hope you trust me enough to tell me first, before you disappear.”

It hadn’t been the most graceful way of saying it, but Phil had meant every word.  Clearly Barton understood that, because those sharp eyes softened and a faint but completely adorable smile curved his mouth.  “Always, sir,” he promised.

*~*


	4. 2005

**Budapest, Hungary, 2005**

Clint liked Budapest.  It wasn’t the first time he’d been to the city, but it was the first time he’d been there for SHIELD.  Budapest was an easy city to disappear in and Clint had always appreciated the feel of the place; Clint had almost been nostalgic to find the same low-level Slavic gangsters still sat outside in cafés, chain-smoking and drinking Turkish coffee while leering at all the passing women.  The city reminded him a lot of Moscow, just without the constant threat of gruesome murder and the shitty weather.  He’d told Coulson as much during their last check in, which had surprised a laugh out of his usually stoic handler.

Yet as familiar as the city was, Clint still felt strange not to have his handler’s voice in his ear.  He wasn’t sure when Coulson’s calm presence on the other end of the comm had become so achingly familiar, but it had and now that he was undercover without it, Clint found he missed it more than he would have thought.  The shrinks would probably have a field day with the idea that Clint missed being told what to do.  Well, they would if Clint actually told them anything.  Ignoring that thought and the way he was missing Coulson’s voice, Clint spotted the name of the club he was looking for and sauntered towards the doorman.

The burly doorman put out a hand to stop Clint’s approach and Clint tried to ignore the fact that the guy was both taller and broader than him.  “Members only,” the doorman said in heavily-accented English.

Clint was faintly surprised at the guy’s choice of language, but they were close enough to the heavy tourist parts of town for it not to be that odd.  “Oh, I think your boss is going to want to see me,” Clint replied, coloring his voice with a credible imitation of an Irish brogue.

“And why is this?” the doorman asked.

“Because my name’s Finn Murphy and he’s expecting me,” Clint said.

“Let the man through, Henrik,” a second voice said, this one with much better English and only a hint of a Hungarian accent.  “He has an appointment.”

The doorman nodded, removing his arm and letting Clint in the door.  Clint held himself still and tried not to twitch as Henrik’s beefy hands patted him down for weapons, removing both his hidden knife and gun.  Clint was then scanned for electronic devices, which had been part of the reason he hadn’t been able to wear a comm tonight.  “Apologies for the treatment, Mr. Murphy, but you have to understand our safety concerns,” the second man said and from the cut of his suit, Clint was guessing he was looking at one of the men pretty high up the food chain.  It was a good sign, as was the fact that the doorman didn’t find Clint’s two other knives.

The pulsing music hit Clint like a wave when he entered the club and he could feel the bass almost vibrating through his bones.  The interior of the club was painted in a theme of black and red and the people inside were dressed in everything from mesh shirts to designer suits.  Clint did his best to appear relaxed as his body automatically tensed at the press of people around him and was grateful when his escort – who still hadn’t given Clint his name – pointed at a door at the back of the club.  Nodding, Clint followed him, unable to keep his eyes from constantly scanning the crowd for threats.  He missed the reassuring presence of his handler in his ear more than ever in that moment.

Clint’s escort nodded at someone off to the side when they reached the door, before opening it and motioning Clint through and up the stairs Clint’s could see in the shadowy room beyond.  The stairs led up and off to the side and Clint figured that was where he was supposed to go, since his escort didn’t seem to have followed Clint in from the club.  Rolling his eyes, he headed up, thankful the door muffled the pounding music.  At the top of the stairs, Clint found two more burly goons standing guard outside another door, but one of the goons opened the door without word, so Clint figured this was where he was supposed to be.

“Ah, Mr. Murphy, right on time,” a smooth voice greeted him as Clint came face to face with his target.

Jozef Anatolyevich Lukov was sitting behind a large desk and aside from his expensive and well-tailored suit and his fashionable haircut, he looked almost average.  Not that Clint let appearances fool him; he knew from Lukov’s file that the mob boss was five nine, with brown hair and eyes and enough connections to the Russian syndicates to be classified as an international threat.  Besides, even if Clint hadn’t seen the file, he could sense the edge of malevolence that seemed to ripple of the mobster even when he was sitting down and smiling politely in Clint’s direction.

“You said you had a job for me?” Clint said, taking the seat opposite Lukov and trying to act as nonchalant as possible.  He was undercover as an assassin who was known to work with the Russian mafia and Clint was finding it surprisingly easy to channel his old attitude from his mercenary days into his undercover persona.

“I do,” Lukov agreed.  “There’s someone I want you to kill and I hear you do good work.”

“I’m one of the best,” Clint said and that wasn’t even a lie.  “If you meet my price.”

Lukov smiled, but there was an edge to it this time.  “I am well aware of your prices, Mr. Murphy.  I don’t hire men like you on a whim.”

“Then who do you want me to kill and how fast do you need it done?” Clint asked.

He knew it was part of the mission and the only way to get Lukov and therefore the rest of his organization to trust him, but Clint’s skin still crawled at the idea of killing someone for the mobster.  He’d left that life behind when he’d joined SHIELD, despite the fact that he was still an assassin when the mission called for it; it was just now, with SHIELD, he knew _why_ he was sent to kill and got a say in whether or not it was the best course of action.  Going back to being a hired gun was something he never wanted to do, but if the intel was right and Lukov was doing a deal with AIM, then he needed to be stopped.  If AIM got access to the network of Russian mafia contacts Lukov had at his disposal, it would be bad for a whole lot of people.

Lukov tossed a photograph towards Clint.  “I need you to kill this irritating whore as soon as possible,” the mobster said, casually lighting a cigarette as Clint picked up the photograph.  “She is… making business difficult.”

Turning the photo over, it took everything Clint had not to tense up at the face he saw.  It had been a few months, but even the grainy quality of the image couldn’t disguise the familiar face of the Black Widow looking back at him.  “Does she have a name?” Clint asked, relieved when his voice came out sounding calm.

“She goes by Natalya Romeijn,” Lukov said.  “She frequents the café two blocks from here.  I assume you can deal with the rest of the details?”

“Yeah, sure,” Clint replied, wondering how the hell he was going to get himself out of this one.  Coulson was _not_ going to like it.

“We have a deal, then, Mr. Murphy?” Lukov asked.

Clint pasted a smirk on his face.  “As soon as I get half my fee up front we do,” he said.

“Already taken care of,” Lukov assured him.  “Feel free to check the bank account you gave us.”

Pulling out his phone, Clint did as Lukov suggested because he knew no assassin worth his salt would take a mobster’s word on that.  Half the agreed fee was in the account SHIELD had set up when Clint checked, so he forced himself to smile at Lukov.  “Looks like we’re in business then,” he said.

“Excellent,” Lukov said, just as the door behind Clint opened and his escort from before walked in.  “Viktor will show you out.”

Clint nodded and stood.  “I’ll contact you as soon as it’s done,” he said.

*~*

The sun was lighting the sky just above the horizon as Phil found himself on the wrong side of dawn yet again.  He was tired and cranky and would kill for a cup of coffee, but he needed to meet with Barton and get his update on his meeting with the Russian mobster.   Since Lukov was so paranoid about security, Barton had had to go in without a comm link and was supposed to have as minimal contact with the rest of the SHIELD team as possible.  It was a risk, but perfectly appropriate given the stakes of the mission.  Phil hated it.  He didn’t like his assets going into dangerous situations without a way to call in backup, but there was nothing he could do to change it.

Turning the corner of the cobbled street and ducking into a nearby alley, Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes when he saw Barton’s familiar figure leaning up against one of the alley walls, half hidden in the shadows.  Dressed in his black jeans, leather jacket and worn combat boots, Barton looked every inch the brooding assassin he was supposed to be.  Phil ignored the alluring picture he made and ran his gaze over the archer to check for injuries.  The gesture was completely professional and practical, and in no way did Phil admire the fit of Clint’s t-shirt over his abs.

“Hey, Boss,” Barton drawled when Phil was close enough.

“How did the meeting go?” Phil asked without preamble.

Barton rolled his eyes and smirked at him.  “It’s good to see you too, Coulson,” he said.  “I’m great, thanks for asking.”

Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes back and settled for raising an eyebrow.  “I’m sorry for not dwelling on the pleasantries, Barton,” he said dryly.  “I was under the impression you would prefer to get to the point.”

“You’re always all work and no play, Coulson,” Barton smirked, before his expression turned serious.  “I’ve got news and you’re not going to like it.”

“What is it?” Phil asked, his mind immediately starting to plan contingencies and extraction plans.  “Did Lukov say something at the meeting?”

“The meeting went fine, Lukov doesn’t suspect me at all,” Barton said, before he drew a photo out from his jacket.  “The problem comes with who Lukov wants me to kill.”

Phil couldn’t stop the curses when he saw the woman in the photo.  “Lukov wants you to kill the Black Widow,” he said.

Barton nodded.  “Yeah,” he agreed.  “I’m not sure if Lukov knows who she really is or not, but either way this is bad, Coulson.”

For a moment, Phil watched Barton with a level, assessing look.  There was a tension in the archer’s shoulders that showed just how much he didn’t like the situation and Phil was inclined to agree.  Officially, Natalia Romanova was still on SHIELD’s most wanted list, but after her help in Beijing, Phil wasn’t really inclined to bring her in.  The fact that Lukov wanted her dead suggested that she was working against him too, which meant she could probably help SHIELD if they could talk to her – or, at least, if Barton could.  “So,” Phil said.  “What’s your plan?”

“Why do you think I have a plan?” Barton asked with a smirk.

Phil arched an eyebrow again.  “Call it a hunch,” he said dryly.

Barton chuckled softly.  “I thought I could go see if the Black Widow wants to chat,” he said.

“Of course you did,” Phil said.  “And then what?  Lukov is going to want proof that she’s dead.”

“Yeah, well, the plan hasn’t quite got that far,” Barton grumbled.  “I just know I’m not going to kill her.”

Phil considered the options.  “If you give me enough time and ensure the Black Widow’s cooperation, we might be able to fake enough proof to convince Lukov of her death,” he said with a frown.  “Maybe.”

“Really?” Barton said, looking both grateful and surprised.

“I’ll talk to Jasper,” Phil promised, knowing the other agent could probably find a way to do it.  “Talk to the Black Widow and meet me back here after sunset.  I’ll let you know if we have a viable plan.”

“You got it, Coulson,” Barton said.  “Thanks.”

Phil gave him a small smile.  “Just… be careful,” he said.

Barton’s smirk softened into a faintly adorable smile.  “Yes, sir,” he said.

*~*

With a sigh, Clint let himself into the small apartment he was using while he pretended to be Finn Murphy.  He’d spent the day spreading the word through select contacts that he wanted to speak to the Black Widow, but so far she hadn’t wanted to speak to him.  Clint knew he wouldn’t be able to find her unless she wanted him to, which wasn’t helping his frustration levels, especially since he’d been up before dawn.  Sighing again, Clint checked his watch. He had about an hour and a half before he had to go and meet Coulson and report the bad news and if he hurried, he could grab both a shower and nap before he had to do that.

Reaching the cramped bedroom, Clint double checked that his security measures were still in place, before he began stripping down for his shower.  He carefully left his gun on the small, uneven table by the bed, but made sure to take one of his knives into the bathroom with him, the habit too ingrained to ignore.  Shrugging out of the rest of his clothes, Clint gratefully stepped under the hot water of the shower, hoping to wash the night’s frustration from his mind as he washed the sweat and dirt from his skin.  Staying under the hot water for as long as he could, Clint let the heat soothe the tension from his muscles until he forced himself to climb out.  The room had filled with steam while he’d showered and Clint reached for a towel as he turned towards the mirror.

Then he froze.

Written on the fogged mirror, less than a foot from the shower, two words had been written.  _Hello Hawkeye_.

His blood turning icy, Clint realized felt the realization sink in that someone had snuck into the bathroom while he’d been showering without him noticing a thing.  He only knew one person who could do that.

Pulling on his dirty jeans Clint grabbed his knife, before he headed out the bathroom.  Logically, he knew that if the Black Widow wanted him dead, he’d be dead already, but Clint still felt better with a weapon in his hand.  Even though the room beyond was dark, Clint spotted Natalia Romanova standing in the corner of the bedroom in the shadows near the door.  Dressed in black, she looked formidable and moved with the same predatory grace Clint remembered.  “I hear you’ve been looking for me,” she said.

Clint watched her for a moment, before he shivered at the now cold water on his skin and sighed.  “I have,” he agreed.

The Black Widow arched an elegant eyebrow.  “I assume it wasn’t just for a chat,” she said.

Rolling his eyes, Clint attempted to towel the worst of the water from his hair.  “You say that like you don’t know _exactly_ why already,” he said.  “Lukov has hired me to kill you.”

As casually as he could, Clint wandered over to grab a fresh t-shirt from his bag, but he doubted his feigned ease was fooling the Black Widow.  “If you’ve called me here in an attempt to make it easier to kill me, I’ll slit your throat in your sleep,” she growled and when Clint turned back to look at her, he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Do I really look like the kind of guy who’d be at the bidding of a second-rate mobster like Lukov?” Clint said, ignoring the stab of fear in his stomach as well as the fact that in the past, Clint _had_ been that kind of guy.

“He’s paying you a lot of money,” the Black Widow said.

Clint snorted.  “We both know there are several contacts being offered by other people that would pay more than double what Lukov’s offering me,” he said.

The Black Widow lowered her gun.  “So why _are_ you here?” she asked.

Taking a deep breath, Clint gave her a long look, before he went with his instinct to trust her.  “SHIELD has become aware that Lukov is about to make a deal with AIM and we want to stop that from happening,” he said.

If anything, the Black Widow looked amused at his explanation.  “I didn’t think sabotage was your specialty,” she said.

Clint wasn’t sure if he should be insulted by that or not.  He shrugged.  “I don’t have to be,” he said.  “There’s a team here with me.”

Blinking, the Black Widow cocked her head to the side for a moment.  Clint couldn’t tell if she was confused or trying to tell if he was bluffing.  “What’s your plan?” she asked finally.

“Well, Lukov wants you dead, so we need to find a way to…” Clint began.

The Black Widow interrupted with a snort.  “You want to fake my death?” she said.  “That’s a stupid plan.  You need me.  Unlike you, sabotage _is_ one of my specialties.”

Clint scowled at her.  “Well, _Nat_ ,” he said.  “What’s _your_ plan?”

“Natasha,” the Black Widow said with a glare.  “My name is Natasha.”

“Well, what’s your plan, _Natasha_?” Clint asked, rolling his eyes and about fifty percent sure he was going to get stabbed for the gesture.

Natasha continued to glare at him, but thankfully didn’t reach for a weapon.  “It’s simple,” she said.  “We let Lukov find out that I’m actually working for AIM.”

Clint gave her a sharp look.  “Are you?”

“No,” she replied.  “I’m trying to do the same thing you are.”

Breathing out a sigh, Clint tossed his towel onto the bed and grabbed a pair of socks from his bag, resigning himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to get his nap and he was probably going to be late to his meeting with Coulson as well.  “So how do we convince Lukov you’re working for AIM?” he said.  “Something tells me he’s not just going to take my word for it.”

Natasha shook her head.  “No, he won’t,” she agreed.  Then she arched her eyebrow at him again.  “You have a handler on this mission, yes?”

“Ah, yeah,” Clint said, wondering what Natasha was planning and if Coulson was going to kill him for agreeing to it.

Natasha smirked darkly.  Clint was more than faintly terrified by the expression.  “Good,” she said.  “You need to set up a meeting.”

“I’m meeting him in just over an hour,” he told her.

The smirk turned into a smile that was no less terrifying.  “Well, then,” Natasha said.  “We don’t have a lot of time.  Grab your boots and let’s go.”

*~*

Phil scanned the shadows, looking for his asset, but the park was as empty as it had been the last time he’d looked.  Glancing down at his watch, he caught sight of the time.  Barton was twenty minutes late.  Phil tried to ignore his growing sense of worry, because Clint was never late, not on a mission.  As much as the archer liked being insubordinate and sometimes just downright annoying, he never did anything that would jeopardize a mission without a very good reason.  It wasn’t like Barton to be over twenty minutes late to a check in, so where the hell was he?

Scanning the park again, Phil felt the back of his neck prickle, like he was being watched.  Then he blinked in surprise as he spotted a figure in a leather jacket walking towards him; the woman’s hair was uncovered, but Phil didn’t need the bright red color to recognize the fluid stride of the Black Widow.  She moved gracefully and easily around a group of tourists and just like the last time he’d seen her in Beijing, Phil had the sense of watching a highly-skilled predator.  He watched with surprise as the Widow turned her head and found himself staring into a pair of sharp green eyes.  He was impressed at the ease to which she’d immediately picked him out where he was sitting on a bench in the shadows, even if he was also a little apprehensive of the skill.  The Black Widow was both ruthless and mysterious and Phil would be stupid not to be aware of that fact that if she wanted him dead, he probably would be.

As soon as the Black Widow got within distance, she stopped.  Phil kept his expression level and tried not to let his fingers twitch obviously towards his gun.  “I would like to speak to you, Mr. Coulson, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t draw your weapon,” she said.

“Where’s Barton?” Phil demanded instead of saying anything in agreement, but he didn’t draw his gun either.

“Talking to one of Lukov’s lieutenants,” the Widow replied.

Phil arched an eyebrow in a way that he hoped conveyed his irritation with the lack of explanation as well as a demand for one and didn’t miss the way the Widow’s sharp eyes studied him from his head to his toes.  Clearly spotting whatever it is she was looking for, the Widow returned her gaze to his face.  “I have agreed to help your agent,” she said.  “However, the deal Lukov is attempting to make with AIM is more complicated that you know.  You will need my help if you wish to successfully sabotage things, so I helped Barton come up with a different way to win Lukov’s trust.”

“How?” Phil asked, his mind already whirling with possible plans and alternatives.

“By making Lukov – through his lieutenant’s soon to be eyewitness testimony – believe I’m running a side deal with AIM,” the Widow answered.

Phil resisted the urge to close his eyes and curse.  He wasn’t stupid enough to take his eyes off the Black Widow, even if the urge to slam his head against something heavy was almost overwhelming.  The plan was admittedly pretty good and put two potential assets in play instead of one; however, it also meant that if Phil was reading the implications correctly, he’d just been set up to be an AIM representative and if he wasn’t careful, the whole mission could blow up in a way that meant he had half a Russian mafia gang on his ass.  Not to mention the fact that Barton had agreed to all of this _without consulting him first_.

“Lovely,” he muttered dryly.  “Is there anything else I should be aware of?”

The Widow cocked her head to the side and considered him again.  “Barton was right,” she said.  “You’re not what I expected at all.”

Phil refrained from giving in to the impulse to say something sarcastic.  “What’s your next move?” he asked instead.

“As part of his deal with AIM, Lukov has a portable hard drive with information on it that AIM wants.  I know where it is, so Barton and I are going to steal it,” the Widow said.  “Hopefully, the disappearance of the drive, along with Lukov’s suspicions about me and his failure to deliver what AIM wants will be enough to sabotage the deal and set the players against each other.”

“It’s a good plan,” Phil said mildly, his gaze narrowing.  “Not that I’m under the impression that I have any particular say in it.”

The Widow’s lips quirked up into a small, amused smile.  “I would apologize, but I do not trust you,” she said.

“The feeling is entirely mutual, Ms Romanova,” Phil said.

“Natasha,” the Widow replied.  “To potential… friends, my name is Natasha Romanoff.”

Phil inclined his head in her direction, mentally filing that piece of information away.  He knew the Black Widow went by many names, but Phil also knew the sound of demons and betrayal when he heard it and realized he’d probably just been gifted with a name very few other people were allowed to use.  “Is there anything you would like me to do?” he asked.

“No,” Romanoff replied.  “Barton will contact you once we’ve stolen the drive and you can conduct whatever surveillance and clean up you require after that.”

She stepped back as if to walk away and Phil knew the conversation was over.  He was a little surprised when Romanoff turned back to him a moment later.  “There is one other thing,” she said, sounding almost hesitant.  “Barton, he asked me to give you a message.  He said he was sorry he couldn’t tell you this in person, but he’s not going to…”  Romanoff paused for a moment.  “Actually, he said ‘tell Coulson he’s still the Tango to my Cash’.”

Phil couldn’t stop the soft chuckle.  In Barton’s usual way, he’d sent his message via bad eighties pop culture, but Phil had understood it; Barton was telling him that he wasn’t going to run off with the Black Widow, even if he was helping her for  the moment.  Phil tried to ignore his rush of relief at that.  “Thank you,” he told Romanoff.  “Can you give him a return message from me?  Tell him he needs to work on his taste in movies.”

Romanoff blinked at him for a moment.  “I’ll tell him,” she said, before she smirked again.  “I’ll see you around Agent Coulson.”

“Yes, Ms Romanoff, you will,” Phil agreed with a polite smile.

*~*

Clint snuck down the darkened corridor, trying to shake off the feelings that had been twisting in his stomach ever since he’d missed his meeting with Coulson.  It was completely ridiculous, but he missed checking in with the other man more than he should.  He trusted Coulson to tell him whether he was making a mistake or not in going along with Natasha’s plans and the sense of calm that always seemed to surround Coulson, no matter the circumstances would have gone a long way to soothing Clint’s nerves.  Although, his reply to the message Clint had sent via Natasha had definitely helped.

Spotting an office to his left, Clint ducked inside and tried to get his thoughts back on what he was going and away from Coulson and the lack of his familiar calm, dry voice in Clint’s ear.  “How are those cameras looking?” he whispered into his comm.

“They’ve been dealt with,” Natasha’s cool voice replied.  “Explain to me again why you’re going in through the vents?”

Rolling his eyes at the question Natasha had been asking ever since he’d proposed the idea yesterday, Clint looked up at the vent above him and tried to figure the easiest way to get to it.  He could probably make it if he used the desk as a jumping off point.  “Because the vents are the fastest and easiest route to where Lukov’s stashed the hard drive and I’m the one that’s going to be doing all the crawling,” Clint replied.

Natasha didn’t reply, but then Clint hadn’t expected her to.  He could hear her silent disapproval from the other end of the comm all the same though.  “I’m sorry my method isn’t James Bond enough for you,” he muttered and he climbed up onto the desk and dislodged the vent cover, carefully sliding it into the vent itself.

He heard Natasha give a disdainful sniff as he easily jumped up to grab both sides of the vents and slid his body into the space.  “James Bond is a useless spy,” Natasha said and Clint had to smile.

“I’m in the vents,” he told her as he replaced the vent cover behind him.

He stayed where he was for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the almost complete darkness of the vent system, before he started crawling forwards.  Thanks to his fondness for enclosed spaces, Clint was familiar with crawling around ventilation as quietly as possible and the half-converted warehouse Lukov was using to hide the hard drive as well as what appeared to be a lucrative amount of black market pornography had vents that were both large and easy to move around in.  He took a left at the first intersection and headed deeper into the converted half of the warehouse.

Ten minutes later, Clint reached the vent covering he’d been aiming for.  “I’m in position,” he whispered.

Beneath him, Clint could see part of the corridor between the converted office space and large, empty rooms that made up this part of the warehouse; there was a small safe in one of the offices that Natasha said was where the drive was hidden.  Watching warily, Clint waited for the guard he knew was patrolling below to walk past the vent where he was hidden.  Carefully, he slid the vent covering back and dropped down, landing in a crouch on silent feet, before quickly creeping after the guard.  Sliding his bow from where he’d been carrying it over his shoulder, Clint nocked an arrow as he rounded the corner and shot the guard.  The guard collapsed with a muffled gurgle, an arrow sticking out of his throat.

Continuing down the corridor, Clint found the second guard standing at the end of the corridor, peering into the shadows.  He’d clearly heard Clint take out the first guard, but he didn’t spot Clint before he’d nocked a second arrow and shot him too.  “Guards down,” he whispered into the comm, before he carefully made sure to grab both his arrows from the bodies.

“Heading to the safe now,” Natasha replied.

Moving back down the corridor, Clint headed in her direction, arrow nocked onto his bowstring in case he ran into any more guards.  “I have the drive,” Natasha told him three minutes later, just as he caught up to her.

“I guess that’s our cue to leave, right?” he asked her with a grin.

Natasha gave him a sharp look, before she took off down the corridor in the opposite direction to the one Clint had come from.  Knowing there was still more security patrolling the warehouse, Clint kept his arrow nocked and tried not to make any smartass comments.  Sure enough, they caught up to the guards about two minutes later and Natasha barely managed to drag him into a nearby office before one of the guards had spotted him.  From what Clint had managed to see before Natasha had grabbed him, both guards were armed and from the way they stood, there was no way to get past them without killing them.

Clint tried to tell Natasha as much using only hand gestures, but Natasha just glared at him again, before motioning towards the window.  Frowning, Clint followed her gaze to the window, before he turned back to look at her.  She couldn’t be serious, could she?

Suddenly, Clint heard the sounds of one of the guards heading closer to the office they were hiding in and barely managed to sling his bow over his shoulder before Natasha was grabbing him by a fistful of his t-shirt and literally dragging him towards the window.  She let go for long enough to open the window and, not needing to be told twice, Clint climbed out onto the narrow ledge.  The ledge might have been narrow, but it also wrapped around the building, extending to the sides of the window and as Clint followed it, his back pressed against the wall of the building, he spared a moment to be grateful for his acrobatic training.  It wasn’t quite as daunting as walking the tightrope, but considering they were at least three floors in the air, it was close.

The breeze was cool on Clint’s as Natasha silently and gracefully slipped out onto the ledge, before she closed the window and moved until she was pressed against the building on the opposite side to Clint.  Straining to listen, Clint heard one of the guards entering the office they’d just left and he held his breath as he saw a flashlight flickering inside the room, before he shifted his attention to finding a way off the ledge that preferably didn’t lead back to the guards.  Grinning, Clint spotted a set of what looked like heavy-duty wires running down the side of the building.  He crept over to them and hoping they’d take his weight, he reached over with one hand to grab hold, before a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

Clint absolutely did not jump and almost fall off the ledge when he turned in surprise.  Natasha quirked her eyebrow at him and gave him an amused smirk.  “You’re meeting Lukov in the morning, aren’t you?” she asked softly.

“Yeah,” Clint told her, before he narrowed his eyes.  “Why?”

Natasha gave him the amused smirk again.  “I will find you afterwards,” she said.

Clint opened his mouth to say something, except Natasha easily slipped around him and disappeared down the wires.  Blinking as he watched her, Clint couldn’t help but be impressed.  He’d grown up in the circus and even he couldn’t make scaling down three floors of a building look that graceful and easy.  “See you in the morning then,” he said dryly as she disappeared into the night, knowing Natasha would hear him over the comm, before turning his attention to climbing down himself.

*~*

Phil reached for his mug of coffee and blinked his aching eyes a few times in an attempt to make them feel a little less like they were filled with grit.  Around him, the large hotel suite had been converted into the mission operations center filled with computers and screens showing live surveillance feeds and satellite images of all of Lukov’s operations, all carefully monitored by a team of junior agents.  Resisting the impulse to rub a hand over his face in both frustration and exhaustion, Phil studied the feeds in front of him and tried to work out where Lukov had gone.  He knew Clint had planned on helping Natasha Romanoff break into one of Lukov’s warehouses to steal an important hard drive that evening, but the archer had yet to check in and then, three hours before, Lukov and his favorite lieutenant had disappeared somewhere and none of Phil’s team could figure out where.

“You know, I’m beginning to think this mission has moved into ‘we-are-screwed’ territory,” Jasper remarked dryly from behind him.

Glancing over at his friend, Phil arched an eyebrow.  “I don’t think it’s that bad yet, Jasper,” he said.

Jasper looked skeptical.  “Of course not,” he said.  “It’s just that our undercover asset has missed check in and is running around with the Black Widow and our main target has disappeared into thin air and we can’t find a trace of him.  I can see how you’d think things aren’t that bad yet.  What do you need, Coulson?  A large explosion?”

“I wouldn’t recommend blowing anything up.  Even the Budapest police might object to that sort of thing,” Phil said mildly, his lips quirking into a faint smile at Jasper’s sarcastic commentary.  “Are we any closer to tracking where Lukov went?”

“Agent Reid is tracking his car and driver, but so far we have nothing,” Jasper said with a sigh.

Phil nodded, keeping a tight rein on his emotions.  He wanted to be out there _doing things_ to find his missing asset or Lukov, but he knew it wouldn’t help.  Phil had a team to run.  “What about the AIM connection?” he asked.  “If Lukov has gone missing, he might be meeting his contact from AIM.”

Jasper frowned.  “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of too,” he said.  “Although, if AIM _is_ here, we haven’t heard anything about it.”

“Why haven’t we?” Phil asked.  “SHIELD constantly monitors anything even remotely concerning AIM.  If they were in the city, we’d be the first people to hear about it.  So why haven’t we?”

“I…” Jasper began, before he shook his head.  “That’s a damn good question.”

“It’s a power play,” Phil said, his mind suddenly realizing what they’d been missing.  “Lukov manufactured his deal with AIM because he’s trying to gain more power with the Russian syndicates he does business with.”

“Shit, Coulson,” Jasper said.  “But what about that hard drive Barton was supposed to be helping the Black Widow steal?  If it doesn’t contain information about AIM on it, what _does_ it have?”

Phil opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted when his phone started ringing.  Knowing they’d be very few people who would be trying to call him on a mission, Phil didn’t hesitate to answer it.  “Coulson,” he said.

“Can I just say, Coulson, that your voice is really damn soothing?  I just want to wrap myself up in it like a blanket.”

Blinking a little at the greeting he’d received, Phil nonetheless felt a wave of relief as he recognized the voice. “Barton,” he said.  “Where are you?  And are you hurt?”

“That’s what I love about you, sir,” Barton replied and Phil could hear the smirk in his tone.  “Always straight to the fucking point.”

“That’s not an answer,” Phil said.

“It’s bad news, isn’t it?” Jasper said from where he was still standing next Phil, listening into the phone call unabashedly.  “What am I saying?  Of course it’s bad news.  Hawkeye _only_ calls when its bad news.”

Phil ignored Jasper as Barton gave a rough chuckle on the other end of the phone.  “I’ve probably got a concussion, but aside from that I’m fine,” he said.  “The rest of it is kind of… messy.”

“Tell Barton if he’d bleeding all over something, I’m not coming to rescue him this time,” Jasper grumbled, mostly for show Phil was guessing.  He knew that if Barton really was hurt, Jasper would be one of the first to volunteer to go and get him.

Phil arched an eyebrow at Jasper, before he turned his attention back to his asset.  “Barton,” he said.  “Talk to me.”

“Well, sir, I kind of need a favor,” Barton said.

Hearing the weariness and pain in Barton’s voice, Phil felt a sense of foreboding.  Whatever had happened was bad and probably more complicated that he wanted to deal with, he could just feel it.  Phil sighed, beginning to feel the start of a headache at his temples.  “A favor?” he said.

“It’s probably best if I start at the beginning,” Barton said.

“That would be appreciated,” Phil agreed dryly.

“So, you know that hard drive that Natasha asked me to help her steal?” Barton began.  “Well, we stole it.  It wasn’t actually that hard to do, because Lukov’s security on it was pretty shit.  We worked out why about an hour ago when Nat attempted to check it out and see what information was on it… because there wasn’t any.”

“The entire deal is a set up,” Phil said.  “Lukov faked his deal with AIM to gain more power with the Russian syndicates he does business with.  It makes sense that there wouldn’t actually have the information he claimed to.”

“You know, one of these days Coulson, I’m going to stop being surprised every time you figure things out,” Barton said, “but that’s not the worst of it.”

“Of course not,” Phil said.  “I’m assuming Ms Romanoff wasn’t the one to give you the concussion?”

“No, that was Lukov and his goons,” Barton said.  “They stormed the place just after Natasha figured out there was nothing on the drive.  I managed to get out because I don’t think they were expecting me to be there, but they got Natasha.  Coulson…”

Phil let his eyes close, because he knew _exactly_ what Barton was asking him.  “You want to mount a rescue mission,” he said.

“Yeah,” Barton agreed softly.

“With a concussion,” Phil added.

“I can do this, Coulson, and you know it,” Barton said fiercely.

Phil sighed.  “I do know that,” he said.  “It would, of course, be easier with help.”

Barton was silent for a moment and Phil could almost hear the surprise.  He ignored the sense of frustration that Barton clearly hadn’t expected him to help and decided that that would be a discussion that could wait for another day.  “I… you’d help me?” Barton finally said.

“Of course,” Phil replied.  “Where do you want me to meet you?”

“Um, the park where you met with Natasha?” Barton suggested, before they said their brief goodbyes and hung up.

Already planning what they could do, Phil headed over to where he’d stashed his gear in the corner of the suite and started gathering everything he might need.  Part of him knew this was an _absolutely awful_ idea, but Phil wasn’t to let Barton do this on his own – because Phil had no doubts that Barton would.  “What’s going on?” Jasper asked from behind him.

Phil glanced over to make sure none of the other agents were paying him any attention, before he turned back to Jasper.  “Barton needs a favor,” he said.  “I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

“This has something to do with the Black Widow, doesn’t it?” Jasper said in a low voice the junior agents couldn’t overhear.

Pausing for a moment, Phil sighed.  “Right after they discovered there was nothing on the hard drive, Lukov’s men broke in and kidnapped Ms Romanoff,” he said.  “Barton wants to rescue her and I’m not about to let him do that alone.”

“You do realize this is insane, right?” Jasper asked him.  “Fury’s going to have your ass for this.”

“It won’t be the first time,” Phil told him.

“Well, then I guess he’ll have both our asses,” Jasper said.  “Call me when you figured out where they’re holding her.  You’ll need someone to keep an eye things.”

“Thank you, Jasper,” Phil said gratefully.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jasper replied.  “Just don’t get your ass shot, okay?  I don’t want to be the one who has to tell Fury what happened.”

*~*

Clint’s boots barely made a sound as he crossed the cracked concrete surrounding the seemingly abandoned factory.  As run down as the building appeared even in the pre-dawn twilight, Clint knew Lukov used it for some of his more lucrative dealings and it was anything but empty.  Coulson was waiting for him behind a stack of discarded wooden pallets, calmly watching the factory like he wasn’t about to conduct an insane, two-man assault on a building full of mobsters.  Clint was still floored by the way Coulson had agreed to help him, because he knew it had to go against mission protocol and probably SHIELD regulations.  It was moments like this that reminded Clint just how much of a _badass_ his handler was.

“The building has an electronic security system,” Coulson said when Clint crouched down beside him; Clint had spotted the cameras himself as he’d checked for a second way into the factory.  “I think it’s mostly for show, because it shouldn’t be too hard to bypass.”

Clint smirked at him.  “Well, sir, we already know Lukov’s not exactly the sharpest crayon in the box,” he said.

Coulson arched an eyebrow.  “I assume there’s no alternate way in?” he asked.

Clint gazed over the mostly empty and deserted lot.  The factory itself was probably about three floors, although from the amount of broken windows on the third floor, Clint doubted anything was up there.  Rusted piles of old machinery lay on either side of the back door, giving them a bit of potential cover, and from the flickering flashlights Clint could see on the first and second floors, there were patrolling guards too.  “Do you think they’re keeping her upstairs?” he whispered to Coulson.  “Or down in the basement?”

“If it was me, I’d choose the basement,” Coulson said.  “Limited access and it’s usually easier to muffle sound.”

Clint turned to look at him for a moment.  “Next time, can you make it sounds less terrifying that you know these things?” he said, rolling his eyes when Coulson gave him a flat look in reply.

Sighting movement to the left, Clint drew his bow before he glanced quickly at Coulson to make sure the other agent had seen it too and they both watched silently as two men walked out of a side door that Clint hadn’t spotted.  Judging by their ill-fitting suits, Clint guessed they were only low-level thugs out for a smoke break.  “How do you want to do this?” he asked, turning back to where Coulson was still crouched in the shadows.

“Quickly and quietly,” Coulson replied.

With a nod, Clint slipped around the stack of pallets and started moving silently through the shadows towards the smoking thugs.  He took them both out easily with two arrows and left the bodies where they fell, pausing only long enough to take his arrows back.  Coulson was waiting for him by the back door when he crept back and Clint opened his mouth to say something, when a sudden burst of gunfire broke the quiet, pre-dawn stillness seconds before an explosion ripped through the other end of the factory.  “It seems, perhaps, that the Black Widow doesn’t need rescuing,” Coulson said dryly.

“Come on, Coulson,” Clint said as more gunfire sounded.  “Not even Natasha can take out a factory full of mobsters by herself.”

Coulson looked like he really wanted to roll his eyes, but nevertheless gave Clint a nod and opened the back door.  Leading with his bow drawn, Clint slipped inside the factory, the calm presence at his back.  Almost immediately, Clint spotted some of Natasha’s handiwork; several thugs lay dead on the ground, their throats slit or knives imbedded in their chests.  Clint avoided the blood as he continued on, intent on following the sounds of gunfire, but he stopped when he saw Coulson crouch down beside the bodies out of the corner of his eye.  He sent his handler a curious look as he watched Coulson carefully retrieve the knives, but Coulson just shrugged and motioned for Clint to continue on.

Creeping forward, Clint moved through the large, empty room towards an open doorway.  Beyond it, Clint could see another large room, this one filled with benches and some kind of machinery.  As he passed through the doorway, he noticed the room also held a very familiar redhead surrounded by four bodies.  Natasha looked tired and worn and Clint winced inwardly when he saw the bruises marring her pale skin.  When she saw him, her gun whipped up and she glared at him with a fierce expression in her eyes.

“Hey Nat,” Clint said with a grin, mainly to be irritating.  “Need a hand?”

Natasha’s gaze flicked over Clint’s shoulder to where Coulson was standing, before flicking back to him.  “You came to… rescue me?” she said.

“Yeah,” Clint said.  “Although, we hadn’t really planned on you rescuing yourself before we got here.”

“Perhaps you might want to continue this later, Barton?” Coulson said dryly, right before another group of thugs burst through the opposite doorway.

Clint shot three of them before he was forced to take cover behind one of the benches.  He heard both Coulson and Natasha returning fire as he crept down the length of the bench in a low crouch.  Taking advantage of a break in gunfire, Clint stood and swung around the end of the bench and shot another thug.  A second thug appeared around one of the bits of machinery, lashing out at Clint with a nasty-looking knife about as long as his forearm.  With no time to nock another arrow, Clint blocked the knife with his bow as he pivoted out of the way.  Slamming his elbow back into the thug’s face as he turned, Clint reached for another arrow and shot him before he could lash out at Clint with the knife again.

Diving forward, Clint rolled out of the way as bullets ricocheted off the concrete where he’d just been standing, right before Coulson shot the thug twice in the chest because Coulson was fucking awesome like that.  Rising back to his feet, Clint shot the thug aiming at Coulson, before he looked around.  “Shit, where’d Natasha go?” he asked when he noticed the room was devoid of the red-haired assassin.

Coulson nodded towards the doorway the thugs had come through as he slid his empty clip out of his gun.  “She went that way,” he said.  “Barton…”

Clint ignored him as he grabbed as many arrows as he could and raced after Natasha.

*~*

Phil growled a curse under his breath as Barton took off after Romanoff, because _of course_ he would do that.  When it came to the Black Widow, Barton was like a puppy who’d found a new friend and apparently charging towards gun-wielding mobsters to rescue that friend was a good idea.  Or at least, Barton didn’t think it was an idea that would end up with him _getting shot_.  Slamming another clip into his gun, Phil followed the wayward archer, muttering curses under his breath the whole way.

Bursting into the next room, Phil shot two of the thugs aiming at Barton and Romanoff before he paused long enough to take in the details of what was happening.  Barton and Romanoff stood back to back in the middle of the room, facing off against Lukov and at least ten of his heavily armed thugs.  Even with their impressive skills, Phil didn’t like Barton and Romanoff’s chances.  Keeping his eyes on Lukov as the mobster shouted something nasty in Russian, Phil almost missed the sight of the thug to his left coming straight at him.  Phil kicked the thug in the stomach, before raising his arm and shooting him for good measure.

Using his entrance as a distraction, Barton and Romanoff surged into fluid, deadly motion and Phil watched with a little awe as they took out eight thugs in less than sixty seconds.  Raising his own gun, Phil took out the final two thugs, before turning his attention back on Lukov.  He found the mobster glaring at him with an arrogant sneer and a gun trained in his direction.  “You don’t work for AIM,” Lukov growled.

“No, I don’t,” Phil replied, right before Romanoff shot him.

Phil turned to her with a raised eyebrow.  “Was that really necessary?” he snapped as he lowered his gun.

“You did not see what he liked to do to young girls,” Romanoff replied darkly.

Feeling nausea roll through his stomach at the implication, Phil gave her a nod.  “I withdraw my objection,” he said.

Romanoff nodded back.  “So what happens now?” she asked.

For a moment, Phil watched her and while Romanoff appeared to be wary, she didn’t look like she was about to aim a weapon in Phil’s direction.  Taking a gamble, because Barton didn’t look particularly tense either, Phil holstered his gun.  “Well, I don’t know about anyone else,” he said, “but I have to go and fill out three piles of paperwork explaining this disaster of an op.”

Barton looked over at him in surprise.  “We’re not going to recruit her?” he said.

Phil carefully watched the way Romanoff tensed and then forced herself to relax at Barton’s words.  No, Phil wouldn’t attempt to recruit her – not yet.  “You can’t afford me,” she told Barton with a smirk.

“Before you go, Ms Romanoff, I believe these belong to you,” Phil said, carefully drawing out the knives he’d claimed from the dead thugs earlier.

Romanoff watched him warily as he set them down on a stack of wooden pallets and deliberately walked away.  Barton glared at him as Phil moved towards the archer, before his eyes moved over Phil’s shoulder and he cursed.  Phil followed his gaze and as expected, the Black Widow – and her knives – had disappeared.

“Come on, Barton,” Phil said.  “I wasn’t kidding about the paperwork.”

*~*


	5. 2006

**Ryn Desert, Russia, 2006**

Clint grimaced as he felt sweat trickle down his spine.  He hated the heat.  He hated sand.  And right now, most of all, he hated the desert.  Yet, here he was, trudging through the shifting sands of a burning, sand-filled and remote corner of Eastern Europe on the trail of a human trafficker who preferred inaccessible deserts to places with beds and running water.  The burning sun beat down on him and even with reflective sunglasses he had to narrow his eyes against the glare.  His boots were filled with sand and both the loose shirt and the t-shirt he wore underneath were sticking to him with sweat.  Clint would have preferred to have been almost anywhere else in the world, dressed in his comfortable black jeans, but he’d long since gotten used to a life filled with things he would rather not be doing.

Hitching the strap of his backpack into a more comfortable position, Clint checked the tracking signal he was supposed to be following, but it was still dead.  Unlike most missions planned by Coulson, this one had been pretty fucked from the start.  They’d taken over the op after the previous agent-in-charge had almost blown it and Clint had been endlessly amused as he’d watched Coulson systematically tear the other agent’s flawed mission plan apart.  At least, he had until it turned out Lipinski hadn’t even been able to tag their target properly.  With a sigh, Clint tucked the PDA that should have been showing the target’s tracking signal back into his pocket.  He’d keep heading east, then.  Ultimately, he’d been heading towards the compound Coulson had spotted on the satellite images that had been highlighted as the target’s base of operations.  It just would have been nice to know if the target had actually _been there_.

Clint frowned a little when he heard his comm click, indicating someone wanted to talk to him again.  Part of Clint wished the comm couldn’t pick up signal absolutely anywhere on the planet, because he just _knew_ this was going to be bad news.  “Please tell me you have good news,” he snapped before whoever it was could say anything.  “Or Lipinski’s going to get very friendly with my boot.”

Clint recognized Coulson’s low chuckle in response and he smiled, even though he could hear the undercurrent of stress in Coulson’s voice.  “You sound a grumpy, Hawkeye,” he said.  “Is the heat finally getting to you?”

Scowling, Clint glared at the sand around him.  “You’d be grumpy too, sir, if you were stuck ass-deep in burning sand in the middle of… actually, I don’t even know if I’m in Russia or Kazakhstan anymore.”

“I’ve got your signal right here.  You’re definitely in Russia,” Coulson said and Clint could hear the faint amusement in his handler’s voice.

“Oh, goody,” Clint said in reply.

He could almost see the way Coulson would be resisting the urge to roll his eyes from here.  “So what did you need, sir?” he asked before Coulson could say anything else.  “Or did you just want to gloat over the fact that you get to sit in the shade while I’m out here getting acute sunburn?”

As far as Clint knew, Coulson and his satellite feed were holed up in an old shack overlooking the compound they were looking for.  The shack had probably once functioned as a guard house in the distant past and was barely standing anymore, but at least Coulson would be out of the burning sun.  The rest of the SHIELD team was holding position around the compound, waiting for Clint’s signal.

“I have an update on the mission,” Coulson said, “but if you keep throwing those insults my way, I can simply buzz over your head in the extraction chopper and leave you drowning in sand.”

“I swear, Coulson, if you leave me here, it won’t be Lipinski I’m taking my boot to,” he growled in warning, too hot and irritated to even add ‘sir’ to his words.

“Charming,” Coulson said, his tone as dry as the sand around Clint; Clint often wondered why none of the other agents seemed to realize how sarcastic Coulson actually was.  “And you wonder why you have no friends.”

“Fuck you, sir,” Clint said.  “I do have friends, except I’m starting to reconsider the whole thing since he’s leaving me to die in the desert.”

“Yes, well you know I’ve always secretly coveted your eighties vinyl record collection, Hawkeye,” Coulson said.  “Now I can finally get my hands on them.”

Clint huffed out a laugh despite himself as he finished climbing up a large sand dune and lay down on his stomach, trying to ignore the burning sand beneath him.  Below him, the target compound sprawled out across the sand on the other side of the dune and Clint could see the shack where Coulson was concealed off to his left.  Digging out his binoculars for a closer look at the compound, Clint watched the bustling activity surrounding the trafficking base.  Several large covered trucks were being loaded with gear and to Clint it definitely looked like the trafficking ring was packing up shop.  “So what’s the mission update, sir?” he asked quietly.

“I’ve been in contact with HQ,” Coulson said.  “We have orders to hit the compound with or without the target’s presence before they move out.”

“Copy that,” Clint confirmed, hating the way sand had gotten underneath his t-shirt and was now sticking to his skin.

He heard Coulson pause for a second on the other end of the comm.  “There’s also bad news,” he said.

“Of course there is,” Clint muttered darkly.  “It’s not like my day could get any _worse_.”

“We’re about to lose the satellite, so we’ll be running blind,” Coulson said.  “Losing the signal will also cut contact with HQ.  We’ll be on our own.”

Clint snorted.  “I take it back, sir,” he said.  “That has definitely made my day worse.”

“You and me both, Hawkeye,” Coulson replied wryly.

Scanning the area around him, Clint spotted small outcrop of rocks nearby and crawled his way over.  The rocks didn’t provide much cover from the sun, but they’d hopefully stop the bad guys down below from spotting him.  Slipping his disassembled rifle from his backpack, Clint put it together with sure, economic movements and settled into wait.  Now that he couldn’t track the target, he was strictly back up for this mission; he’d have to trust that Jasper and the rest of the SHIELD team could handle the human traffickers while he and Coulson watched over them from up high.

“Hawkeye in position,” he reported to Coulson.  “Awaiting your orders.”

“Hold position and report any movements,” Coulson told him.  “I want to know if anything looks like it’s going to leave that compound.”

“Copy that,” Clint said.  He paused.  “You know, sir, next time, can I vote to be in the shack with you?  I can probably shoot the bad guys just as easily from where you are without all the delights of getting half the desert down my pants.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Hawkeye,” Coulson said, sounding amused, because he was evil that way.

Clint heard the faint click of his comm that signaled Coulson shifting them to a more general channel and he grinned when he heard Jasper voicing a very loud complaint about the sand and the heat.  Staring down the scope of his rifle, Clint let the mission chatter wash over him as he watched the activity surrounding the compound and reporting the movements he saw when asked.  It didn’t take Clint long to pick the leaders of the operation and he filed their faces away for later, just in case.

Clint wasn’t sure how long he lay there in the burning sand, but it felt like hours before the team was ready to move.  “Command, alpha team is ready to move on signal,” Jasper reported in and Clint could see him and a few other agents waiting just out of sight of the compound to the east.  He knew there was a second team on the opposite side waiting to go as well, but he couldn’t see them from where he was.

“Command?” Jasper asked again.  “Coulson, are you there?”

A sudden feeling of dread filling his stomach, Clint scrabbled for his binoculars so he didn’t have to shift his rifle and searched the shack for movement.  He didn’t see any, but that didn’t necessarily mean Coulson wasn’t still inside.  “Hawkeye, can you see any sign of Coulson?” Jasper asked a beat later.  “He’s not responding to his private channel either.”

“Negative,” Clint replied, before movement caught the edge of his gaze and he swore when he recognized what he was seeing.  Three armed men were dragging a fourth into sight in the middle of the compound’s courtyard and Clint instantly recognized the fourth man as Coulson.  “Shit, alpha team, I see him.  East side of the compound…”

Jasper cursed up a storm.  “I see him, Hawkeye,” he replied.

Clint felt his finger twitch on the trigger as he watched Coulson take a rifle butt to the kidneys hard enough that he stumbled to his knees and let out a shaky breath as he forced himself to relax.  Coulson’s hands had been tied behind him back, but Clint felt a surge of dark satisfaction when it didn’t stop Coulson from head-butting one of his captors as he was yanked back to his feet.  Clint smirked at the blood dripping from the trafficker’s nose, before he cursed when another of the traffickers grabbed Coulson and smacked him across the face, sending him off balance and crashing to the sand.

“Shit, let me take the goddamn shot,” Clint growled.

Below him, Coulson was roughly dragged to his feet again and shoved in the direction of the doors to the compound.  “Sitwell…” Clint growled again.

Despite the rising tension, Clint kept his finger relaxed on the trigger and waited for his opportunity.  Contrary to popular opinion, he didn’t always act without thinking.  Coulson had trained him too well to take unnecessary risks.  “Hawkeye, take the shot,” Jasper’s voice ordered right as Clint saw Coulson gearing up for another escape attempt.

Slowing his breathing, Clint sighted his target and took the shot.  Shifting his aim as soon as the first trafficker went down, Clint took out the second as the third man grabbed Coulson around the throat as a human shield and disappeared into the compound.  Clint recognized the man’s face as one of the leaders he had identified earlier.  “Shit, one of the ringleaders just dragged Coulson inside the compound,” he said.

Clint knew he should hold position and help the SHIELD team now swarming across the open ground in front of the compound, but the other agents were all busy with stopping the traffickers and seizing gear.  None of them were free to go after Coulson and Clint knew that the longer they waited the more danger Coulson was going to be in.  Who knew what the ringleader would do while the SHIELD team was busy outside.  Clint wasn’t going to take the risk, not when he could do something about it.

Slinging his rifle onto his shoulder, Clint moved.  “Sitwell, I’m going after Coulson,” he said so the other agent would know he wasn’t going to be watching their backs anymore; Clint knew it was unprofessional and selfish as hell, but given the choice between backing up a skilled team and rescuing Coulson, Coulson would win every fucking time.

“Hawkeye!”  Jasper said.  “Hawkeye, respond!”

Clint made his way down to the compound, carefully avoiding the now yelling traffickers and bursts of gunfire, his gaze fixed on the door to the compound Coulson had been dragged through.  He felt slightly bad for ignoring Jasper, but he’d make it up to the other agent later.  Using the chaos as cover, it was deceptively easy for Clint to slip inside the compound and he sank into the shadows just inside the doors and waited for his eyes to adjust to the sudden dimness.  Blinking, he couldn’t see signs of anyone else being inside the compound, which made him wary.  Drawing the gun from his thigh holster, Clint slipped his sunglasses into a spare pocket and slipped deeper into the compound.  The sounds gunfire outside were muffled, making Jasper’s increasingly angry shouts in his ear sound even louder.

Hearing footsteps as he headed deeper into the building, Clint felt his breath catch in his throat as his adrenaline surged.  Spotting a door on his left, he slipped into the room beyond just as two traffickers ran down the corridor, shouting and brandishing rifles as they headed outside.  Clint turned to see if there was another way out of the room as he breathed out in relief, only he never quite got that far.  Before he could finish turning, a strong hand clamped over his mouth and Clint cursed his mistake as he felt himself caught in a steely grip.  Clint immediately bit down on the hand over his mouth, trying to twist out of his captor’s grip, but before he could do any more damage than that, he felt a fiery pain in his neck.  He recognized the feel of the needle a second before the burning pain began to spread across his skin and the world faded to black.

 _Oh, shit_.

*~*

The first thing Phil realized as he regained consciousness was that the whole right side of his face _hurt_.

The second was that he’d been captured, which could never be described as a _good_ thing.  He had hazy memories of being grabbed by the human traffickers they’d been trying to stop, before someone had smashed him in the side of the head with something heavy; his large throbbing headache and the bruise down the side of his face made it feel like it might have been a baseball bat.

As his senses gradually came back to him and the throbbing in his head dulled to an ache he could ignore, Phil took stock of the situation.  Beneath him, freezing concrete sapped what little body heat he had left and from the way pain had spiked across his ribs when he’d moved, Phil guessed his head wasn’t the only part of him that was injured.  He vaguely remembered fighting the traffickers that had grabbed him and landing a few solid punches and kicks before they’d hit him across the head again.  Judging by the sharp ache every time he breathed, Phil was pretty sure he’d taken a boot or two to the ribs on the way down as well.  His shoulders were aching and after a little exploration, Phil realized his arms were bound tightly behind his back.

What concerned Phil the most however was the line of surprising warmth along his back and the weight of someone else pressing against him.  From the feel of it, Phil and his mystery companion both lay awkwardly on the concrete floor, no doubt left where they’d been dumped.  Phil had no idea who it was, because as far as he could remember, he’d been alone when they’d caught him.  Yet Phil’s head was currently pillowed on something far more comfortable than concrete and it felt dangerously like he and the mystery man were _cuddling_.

“Please tell me you’re awake, sir, because you’re kind of boring when you’re unconscious.”

For a brief second, Phil kept his eyes closed because if he’d been caught and was subsequently being cuddled, _of course_ the person doing it would be Clint Barton.  “Barton, I may be a little hazy on the mission details right now, but I do believe the last order I gave you was to hold position,” he said finally, his voice rough with disuse.

Phil opened his eyes to find himself staring at the darkness above him.  From what he could tell, his head was lying pillowed on Clint’s shoulder, with Clint lying half on his side, one leg thrown over Phil’s in an obvious attempt to keep him from moving.  Phil felt more than slightly grateful he couldn’t see the expression on Clint’s face.

“In my defense, I only broke position when I saw them kidnapping you,” Clint replied.

Phil refused to let the feel of firm muscle of Clint Barton against his back distract him, but it wasn’t easy.  Part of Phil wanted nothing more than to press backwards into that warmth and strength, but Phil was trying really hard not to give into that part of his brain – and not because they were both currently bound and lying on cold concrete.  No matter how much he wanted to, there were lines Phil had promised himself he would not cross.  Like giving in to temptation and turning this _thing_ between him and Barton into something more than it was.  Heartbreak lay on the other side of that line.

Of course, now that Phil knew who it was, he felt overly conscious of the warm press of Clint where he was slumped against Phil’s shoulders and back.  The reassuring rise and fall of Clint’s breathing was comforting, but the small, yet constant shudders of pain that went through the other man had Phil worried.

“Do you have any idea where we are?” Phil asked, trying to keep Clint talking as much as he was trying to distract himself from the inevitable pain and dizziness as he sat up.

Clint gave a soft moan of loss as Phil managed to awkwardly push himself up onto his elbows and Phil immediately missed the shared warmth.  “No idea,” Clint answered, “but we’re definitely not in the desert anymore.  I woke up a little when they were moving us and I think I remember an airstrip.”

Phil grimaced.  That meant they could be almost anywhere.  With the lack of satellite coverage when they were taken, SHIELD and the rest of their team would have a hard time tracking them, which meant for now he and Clint should consider themselves on their own.  “I do know something, sir,” Clint added.  “One of ‘em did have a complicated tattoo on his right arm.  I reserve the right to shoot him when I get out of these restraints.”

Phil paused for a moment, his vision blurring slightly, as Clint’s words sunk in.  “Barton...” he began, immediately concerned.

“I may have pissed them off when I woke up,” Clint said softly, interrupting Phil’s question.

The words gave Phil all the determination he needed to finish sitting up despite the head injury and turn to face the archer.  When Phil did, he almost regretted it.  “I don’t look that bad, do I?” Clint asked, his flippant words ending on a wince.

Phil didn’t answer.  Instead, he ignored the uncomfortable angle his body was twisted at as his eyes roved Clint’s body.  From what Phil could see in the dim light, Clint had the beginnings of a spectacular black eye and there was dried blood caked down his face from a large cut on his hairline.  His arms were also covered with a series of shallow cuts and even though Phil couldn’t see through the rest of his clothes, the way Clint was holding himself still proved he’d probably taken a good beating at some point.

“Why are you still bound?” Phil asked, his sharp eyes taking in the harsh way Clint’s arms were tied even tighter behind his back that Phil’s were.  “Shouldn’t you already be out of your restraints and extracting revenge?”

Clint scowled.  “Who am I?  Houdini?”

“Usually, yes,” Phil said mildly.

Letting out a slow breath, Clint finally let the pain show on his face.  “I tried,” he said.  “I didn’t have much to work with.  And then my fingers went numb about an hour ago.”

Phil frowned, before carefully leaning away from Clint and spitting the lingering taste of blood from his mouth.  He winced as the movement hurt his split lip and bruised jaw and glanced around their prison.  “We need to get out of here fast, then,” he said.

The old warehouse was the typical cliché – cold, crumbling concrete, broken windows and the distant drip of water.  Phil hoped they were still somewhere in the more remote areas of Eastern Europe because if they hadn’t been transported very far after the mission went to hell, SHIELD would have a better chance of finding them.  The warehouse was lit by the faint trace of moonlight coming in from one of the broken windows and the temperature was dipping close to freezing, the cold making Phil all too aware of the missing warmth of Clint pressed against his back.  A careful search with his growing night-vision didn’t turn up anything useful – not even a rusted pipe.

“What were you using to try and get out of your restraints?” Phil asked Clint.

“Paperclip,” Clint answered, the humor in his tone making Phil turn back to face him.  “You keep some interesting things in your pockets, Coulson.”

Phil fought the urge to blush at the idea of Clint’s fingers in his pants pocket while he’d been unconscious.  “I don’t suppose they let me keep my lock picks?” he asked hopefully.

“It depends where you keep them, Coulson,” Clint said with a grin as he blatantly looked Phil up and down, “but I’m guessing no.”

Phil sighed.  _That would be too easy_.  Glancing around the warehouse, Phil tried to figure out what to do.  While he wasn’t bad, he lacked Clint’s artistry with lock picking, so it was doubtful he’d have better luck on his own restraints with the paperclip.  The analytical side of Phil’s brain told him that without getting out of their bindings, they stood little chance of escape given the way the warehouse had been cleared of useful items.  Clearly their captors were expecting resistance and escape.  It would make things more difficult, but not impossible.

“Hey, sir, you think Jasper will bust down the door before the bad guys get back?” Clint said, breaking the silence.

“I thought you were a confident, twenty-first century man, Barton,” Phil replied, still trying to think of a plan to get out of their current mess; with his vast experience in situations not at all dissimilar from this one, it shouldn’t have been difficult.  “Not one to wait around for someone to rescue you?”

They had to find a way out of there and soon.  Phil knew the protocols for missing field agents – he’d helped write them himself.  Unless Phil’s internal clock was wrong, they had about another ten hours before they would go from ‘missing’ to ‘compromised’.  After that, no rescue would be forthcoming and if they did manage to rescue themselves the debrief would almost be worse than the torture.

“Fuck you, sir,” Clint said, his response automatic, but filled with an undercurrent of humor despite their current situation.

“I’d rather wait until after we escape and SHIELD has debriefed us, if you don’t mind,” Phil said dryly, trying to sound as close to his normal self as possible.

Clint gave a rough chuckle that ended with a muffled hiss of pain.  “Is that a promise, Coulson?”

Phil smiled faintly at the familiar banter.  They’d done this before a million times over comms, while bullets flew around them or as one of them bled all over the other.  There was a rhythm to it, a familiar echo to keep themselves aware that they were not alone.

“Only if you buy me dinner first, Barton,” Phil replied and he didn’t have to see the archer’s face to know he was smirking.  “I’m not easy.”

Clint gave a rough chuckle.  “If we get out of here in one piece, it’s a date,” he said.

Phil wasn’t sure what to make of Clint’s words.  The flirtatious banter between them had been going on for a while, but Phil had never been certain how much Clint actually meant it.  Despite the rumors that swirled around the archer, Phil knew that most of Clint’s flirting was harmless and Phil had resigned himself to the fact that Clint didn’t mean it with him either.  No matter how much Phil wanted to take Clint out on an honest-to-God date, their thing wasn’t like that.  Phil knew how other people saw him and knew someone as gorgeous and driven as Clint could have anyone they wanted, not just some balding, middle-aged guy in a suit.

“Five bucks says Maria busts down the door before Jasper can,” Clint said, breaking through Phil’s increasingly distracted thoughts.

“Ten bucks says we get ourselves out of here before either of them stop arguing about who’s actually leading the op,” Phil countered.

Clint chuckled softly.  “Are they ever going to admit they’re attracted to each other?” he said.

Phil smiled faintly as they fell into another silence and he had to fight back a wave of dizziness and he stubbornly tried to find something to help them out of their current situation.  Phil was usually the man with the plan and it was disconcerting to not be able to think of one – even a _bad_ plan.

A moment later, Phil was jerked from his thoughts by the loud screech of the warehouse door being dragged open.  For a moment, two large thugs were framed in the moonlight beyond.  Phil tensed, not sure who the thugs were there for, but knowing neither option was good.  Uselessly, Phil hoped they were there for him because as much as he hated enduring pain and the usually moronic questions that came with the blood and the broken bones, it was better him that Clint.

The thought of Clint being put through more than he already had twisted his stomach.  It was stupid, because Clint was a trained SHIELD agent and willingly put himself into situations where torture and death was a possibility, but a large part of Phil – a part that was less handler and more the part that wanted romance and dinner dates and a _relationship_ – needed to protect Clint from that for as long as he could.

“You.  Get up,” one of the thugs grunted, his voice thick with a heavy Romanian accent.  For emphasis, he kicked Phil in his sore ribs.

Wincing, Phil struggled to his feet underneath him, but hours of lying on the freezing concrete and having his hands bound behind his back made him clumsy and slow.  Clearly not having much patience with their prisoners, the thugs reached down to yank Phil roughly to his feet with another grunt.

“No!” Clint yelled from the ground.  “He doesn’t know anything.  Take me instead!”

He was struggling hard enough to jar whatever injuries he already had, but despite the pain and the awkward position, Clint was fighting harder than Phil had ever seen him fight.  He kicked and yelled and bit at any part of the thugs that was closest to him, struggling to get to his feet and do some real damage.

The second thug grunted painfully when Clint’s foot connected with his knee, before he retaliated with a brutal kick to Clint’s stomach.  Phil couldn’t keep the wince from his face as Clint curled in on himself and squeezed his eyes shut.  With another kick, the second thug rolled him over onto his back and placed a firm boot on his chest.

As the second thug had moved, Phil’s sharp eyes had caught the dull flash of moonlight glinting off keys and realized that there might be an easy way out of the restraints after all.  All he had to do was get the keys off the thug with his hands tied behind his back and avoid getting shot by either of them.  Flicking his eyes towards Clint, he silently asked Clint to stop struggling.

“It’s okay, Barton,” he said, hoping that Clint would understand what he was trying to do.

Clint’s sharp blue eyes snapped to his, his struggles stilling.  As Clint let his body sink back down to the concrete, he gave a small nod and Phil felt a rush of relief.  As Clint’s handler, he was intimately familiar with the various self-sacrificing and risky stunts Clint would pull to save someone he cared about, without thought of himself.  The fact that Clint was trusting Phil enough to hold back on his instincts was both reassuring and humbling.

“Let’s go,” Thug Number One said, yanking Phil towards the door.

Phil let himself be pulled along, unresisting but not helping either.  At the door, he shot a last look at Clint in time to see the archer struggling to push himself into a sitting position, blood trickling down his face from where the cut on his hairline had reopened.  Phil ignored the fear gathering in his stomach and suppressed the surge of adrenaline urging him to fight.  He had one shot at this and he had to wait for the right moment.

He just hoped he wouldn’t have to wait too long.

*~*

Clint watched Dumb and Dumber drag an unresisting Coulson from their warehouse prison and bit back every instinct that was urging him to fight.  He had no idea what Coulson was planning, but he had to trust his handler enough not to mess it up.  And he did.  He trusted Coulson like he trusted no one else.

It didn’t mean he had to like whatever Coulson was planning, because when it came down to it, Clint wasn’t about to let Coulson get hurt.  Out of the two of them, Clint was the replaceable one, no matter his skills as a sniper, and Fury would finish what the thugs had started if Clint let Coulson get shot or worse.  Of course, that wasn’t the only reason Clint didn’t want to see Coulson hurt, but the second reason wasn’t something Clint was willing to admit out loud.  He knew his place at SHIELD and in Coulson’s life.  He was the skilled asset that didn’t always follow orders and the guy that took up space on Coulson’s couch.  He liked to think they were friends as well, but Clint didn’t delude himself into thinking things would ever be anything more than that.  He might be more than a little in love with his handler, but that didn’t change the fact that Coulson was way out of his league.

Clint sighed and tried to shake off his thoughts.  Dwelling on what could possibly be happening to Coulson right this very second was only going to make him feel worse for agreeing to Coulson’s plea and not pounding Dumb and Dumber’s faces into the concrete when he’d had the chance.  Cursing under his breath, Clint tried to wiggle feeling back into his fingers, but they were still irritatingly clumsy and he couldn’t manage to pick up the straightened paperclip hidden underneath his back.

Sinking back down to the concrete, Clint tried to suppress a shiver by clinging to the memory of Coulson’s solid, warm body lying next to his.  Lying close like that, Clint had been able to feel all the hidden strength and muscle Coulson covered with his suits and for a little while, Clint had been able to lose himself in the fantasy of having Coulson’s warm, solid strength pressed up against him for a different reason.  Despite all the missions they’d been on together, Coulson had never let himself get that close to Clint before and Clint wasn’t surprised that Coulson had had to be tied up and unconscious to have it happen at all.

Trying to ease the pain in his arms and shoulders, Clint shifted slightly and hissed at the pain of his other injuries flared and set fire to his skin.  _Fuck_ that hurt.  Breathing through the pain, Clint waited until it receded before he tried shifting his right knee again.  The pain wasn’t any better a second time; in fact, it actually felt worse without the pain of his other bruises to distract him.  Clint grimaced.  As much as he hated it, he was going to have to stay where he was and wait for Coulson to come back, because even if he could get out of his restraints, he wouldn’t be walking anywhere.

The aching cold from the concrete floor was seeping into his exhausted, worn body and it was getting harder for Clint to suppress his shivers.  He wasn’t sure how long it had been since they’d been grabbed from the trafficker’s compound and the remains of the drug they’d used on him was making it hard for Clint to keep track of time.  To keep his mind from the pain and worrying about Coulson, Clint started wiggling his fingers to get the blood flowing again, determined to at least be ready for whatever his handler had planned.  Aside from his knee, he didn’t think he was badly injured.  He’d definitely had worse beatings in his life.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there when a loud, metallic screech broke through his exhausted daze.  His eyes immediately slid to the door as someone pushed it open.  Clint blinked, before grinning when he recognized Coulson’s familiar figure.  He’d never been so glad to see his handler in his life.  Coulson immediately crossed the floor to help Clint sit up and Clint gratefully leaned against him for a moment.  “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me, sir,” he said as flippantly as he could manage.

“Never,” Coulson replied with enough vehemence in his voice that Clint had to swallow in surprise.

He was vaguely aware of Coulson unlocking his restraints before Clint felt Coulson’s calloused hands start rubbing briskly up and down his arms.  He knew as soon as the blood started flowing into his fingers again everything was going to _hurt_ , but for one long, warm moment, Clint reveled in the dim feeling of Coulson’s hands on his bare skin.  Giving in for a second, he rested his forehead on Coulson’s shoulder and let his eyes drift shut.  Coulson smelt of dirt and sweat and faintly of blood, but Clint never wanted to move.

“We need to go,” a female voice said quietly from the doorway.

Clint snapped his eyes open and twisted in Coulson’s arms so he could see the door.  “Coulson, is that..?” he began in a low voice.

“The Black Widow?” Coulson finished as he carefully helped Clint to his feet.  “Yes.”

Conscious not to put his weight on his bad knee, Clint gripped tightly onto Coulson’s arm and gave his handler an incredulous look.  “What the hell is Natasha doing _here_?” he hissed.

Coulson gave Clint a small smile as he slung Clint’s arm over his shoulder and helped take his weight.  “She’s here to rescue us,” he said quietly as they began hobbling to the door.

Blinking, Clint looked at the woman dressed head to toe in black who was guarding their escape route.  This time, Natasha’s distinctive red hair was pulled back from her face in a tight bun and thankfully her skin was free of bruises, but her eyes were as sharp as ever when she glanced over at Clint.  Clint wasn’t sure if she’d heard what Coulson had said or simply read something in his face, but he saw her lips quirk up into a faint smirk.  “You didn’t have to rescue me in Budapest,” she said.  “Consider this returning a favor.”

Clint pretended pain was the reason he had to bite his lip and look away.  Apart from Coulson, no one had ever made the choice to risk their life just to save him before.  “Cool,” he said, trying to regain his usual flippancy, before he rolled his eyes towards Coulson.  “Does this mean we can keep her?”

Coulson huffed out a sigh, but Clint could see the way his eyes were amused.  “Would this be a bad time to remind you that she can probably kill you from where she’s standing, Barton?” he said.

“Is that a yes?” Clint shot back with a grin.

Natasha gave him a calculating appraisal.  “I thought it was just a side-effect of Budapest, but he really is fond of recklessness, isn’t he?” she said.

Coulson snorted.  “You have _no idea_.”

“Hey!” Clint protested.

Ignoring him, Coulson gave Natasha a short nod as they reached the door and she disappeared down the corridor on silent feet.  He then drew a gun and held it out to Clint.  “Don’t shoot yourself in the foot,” he said.

“Fuck you sir,” Clint grumbled as Coulson drew a second gun and Clint tried to ignore the way Coulson’s eyes were dancing with silent laughter.

“This way,” Natasha said, reappearing out of the shadows at Clint’s elbow.

Clint absolutely _did not_ jump.  As they moved off in the direction she’d indicated, Clint tried to ignore the way Coulson was biting his lip in an effort not to laugh.  Naturally, _Coulson_ hadn’t jumped because the man was a fucking ninja.

Following Natasha’s lead, it was deceptively easy to make their way out of the warehouse through a side entrance, although the two dead bodies lying outside the door might have indicated why.  Clint grunted as he was manhandled towards the large black SUV waiting for them.  Natasha paused as she opened the door to the backseat, her eyes clearly appraising the dirty and stained cargo pants and t-shirts he and Coulson were wearing.  Grabbing something, she tossed it to Coulson.  “Put him in the back,” she said.  “You’re up front with me.”

As Natasha headed towards the driver’s seat, Clint realized she’d tossed a jacket to Coulson.  Like the clothes she wore, the jacket was black and looked like part of a uniform; Clint figured it would probably be more subtle to stamp the letters FSB on the back and be done with it.  He shared a knowing smirk with Coulson as his handler helped him carefully into the SUV and shut the door.  Clint watched him shrug into the jacket before he climbed into the front passenger seat.  “There are papers in the right front pocket,” Natasha said with a smirk, nodding at the jacket Coulson now wore as she skidded away in a spray of slush and gravel.  “You’ll need them when we reach the border.”

Clint grinned at the eyebrow Coulson raised at her words.  “Where are we, anyway?” he asked.

“Just outside of Volgograd,” Natasha replied.

“Ms Romanoff,” Coulson said calmly, sounding completely unaffected by Natasha’s sickening, skidding driving.  “Have you reconsidered the possibility of coming to work for SHIELD?”

Natasha slid him a sidelong glance.  “Why would I do that?” she said.

Clint watched in the rearview mirror as Coulson hid a smirk.  “Well, you have helped us three times in the last year,” he said mildly.

“I have helped SHIELD more than that over the last year, Agent Coulson,” she said.

“Perhaps as a whole, yes, but you’ve directly helped myself and Agent Barton three times,” Coulson replied.

Natasha gave Coulson an amused look out of the corner of her eye.  Clint braced himself as they skidded into a turn and willed himself not to throw up.  “I’m pretty sure, sir, that if Natasha didn’t want to join SHIELD, she wouldn’t have rescued us, favor or not,” he said.

Coulson looked like he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes.  “I’m aware of that, Agent Barton,” he said, “but my mother taught me that if you want something from a lady, you ask.  _Politely_.”

Unable to help himself, Clint gave a bark of laughter.  “Man, Fury is _not_ going to believe this one, Boss.”

Coulson just smiled.

*~*

**SHIELD Headquarters, New York, 2006**

No matter what anyone said, Phil was _not_ hiding in his office.  Having a fortified defense of mission reports and requisition forms didn’t mean he was trying to avoid his asset, who had a well-known allergy to bureaucracy.  He was just trying to catch up on his paperwork without interruption.  That was all.

“Ha!  I knew it.”

Phil looked up to see Nick Fury leaning against his doorway, arms folded across his chest and his eye narrowed dangerously at Phil.  “Can I help you, Director?” Phil asked mildly.

Nick was silent for a long moment, which was _never_ a good thing.  “When was the last time you ate, Coulson?” he said.

Phil arched an eyebrow.  “Lunchtime?” he hedged while he stole a glance at the clock on his computer screen.  Mentally, he winced when he realized it was somewhere in the early evening and he’d disappeared into his office before most normal people would have had breakfast.

“Try again, Phil,” Nick said, his expression unimpressed.

Phil sighed.  “Fine, dinner last night.  Happy now?”

Nick scowled.  “Happy?  You’re attempting to work yourself to death.  That does _not_ make me happy,” he said.  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

When Phil opened his mouth to protest, Nick cut him off with a glare.  Giving in, Phil put down his pen and settled back in his chair.  “Actually, I was just attempting to catch up on all the paperwork that bred when I wasn’t here,” he said.  “Although I can see how you could get the two ideas confused.”

The glare Nick leveled at him had been known to make junior agents spontaneously burst into tears.  “Are you even supposed to be off medical leave?” he said.  Then he waved a hand through the air, cutting off Phil’s attempt to answer.  “Nevermind.  Up!” he barked.

“And where are we going?” Phil asked as he climbed to his feet; the more rebellious part of his brain making him draw out the movements a little longer than necessary just to be irritating.  It was possible Clint was a bad influence on him.

“Conference Room B.  You’re eating, even if I have to make it a damn order,” Nick said.  “Maria ordered Chinese.”

Phil mentally raised an eyebrow.  Chinese was Maria’s favorite, but she rarely ordered it for reasons she hadn’t mentioned to Phil.  “What’s the occasion?” he asked.

Nick glanced at him in surprise.  “What’s the..?” he said, before he sighed.  “You didn’t read my memo, did you?”

“You don’t send memos,” Phil replied flatly.  “You send gossip masquerading as memos.”

“This time I sent a memo,” Nick said.

He pushed open the door to Conference Room B and impatiently gestured for Phil to enter.  Phil reminded himself that he _liked_ Nick and it probably wasn’t a good idea to taze the Director of SHIELD anyway.  Inside the room, Maria was sitting at the conference table with her feet up, her eyes fixed on the thick file in her lap and a mountain of Chinese takeout sitting in front of her.  She looked up with a smile at Phil’s entrance, but at his expression, she glanced over his shoulder at Nick.  “He didn’t read the memo,” Nick explained.

Maria snorted.  “I told you no one reads your memos,” she said.

“Jasper reads my memos,” Nick grumbled, pulling out a chair and sprawling into it.

The enticing smell of Chinese food was making Phil’s stomach grumble.  He sat down next to Maria as she sent him an amused glance and reached for the moo shu pork.  “Jasper’s a gossip,” she told Nick pointedly.

“Where _is_ Jasper?” Phil asked.

“Switzerland,” Maria replied.  “Also, he’s still mad at you for getting kidnapped in Russia.”

Phil resisted the urge to scowl.  Jasper hadn’t had many flattering things to say about Phil getting grabbed by the trafficking ring, or the fact that Clint had got himself snatched as well when he went after Phil.  He’d had to threaten Jasper with extra paperwork to get the other agent to shut up.  “We managed to get ourselves out, didn’t we?” Phil said.  “Not to mention recruiting a new asset to SHIELD.”

Nick snorted.  “Phil is the only asshole I know who can get kidnapped by Russian traffickers and still manage to convince _the Black Widow_ to come and work for SHIELD,” he said.

“Actually, you do,” Phil replied.  “Barton.   _He’s_ the reason Agent Romanoff decided to come and work for SHIELD, not me.”

For a moment, Nick blinked at him.  Maria smiled.  “It sounds like you owe me one hell of a story, Phil,” she said.

Ignoring them both, Phil stole the fried rice before Maria could and looked expectantly at Nick.  “So what’s the big news?” he asked.

“Maria’s been promoted,” Nick said with a smirk.

Phil turned to smile warmly at Maria.  “Congratulations,” he began, before her faintly guilty expression made him pause.

“It’s more than that, Phil,” she said, before taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders.  Phil raised a questioning eyebrow.  “I’ve been promoted to Deputy Director of SHIELD,” she told him.  “I know technically you were the senior agent...”

Phil snorted.  “Nick knows better than to make me Deputy Director.  I’d have the World Security Council assassinated within a week.”

“Hey!” Nick protested.  “I’m still right here.”

“I know,” Phil replied, glancing over at him.  “You’re eating all the egg rolls.  Again.”

“You do realize the World Security Council hides the identity of all their members?” Maria said dryly.

This time it was Nick who snorted.  “Like that would stop him,” he muttered.

Maria grinned for a moment, before the smile softened and turned a little questioning as she looked back at Phil.  “You’re okay with the fact I’m now your boss?” she asked quietly.

“I can’t think of anyone else who’d make a better Deputy Director,” Phil told her.

“Thank you,” Maria said.

Nick chuckled.  “There’s probably something you should know about Phil now that you’re Deputy Director,” he told her.  “He’s an asshole who will actively ignore and disregard your orders if he doesn’t agree with them.  He’s almost as bad as Barton.”

Arching an eyebrow, Maria sent Nick a look that Phil was pretty sure she’d learned from him.  “I was Phil’s field partner for three years,” she said.  “I know _exactly_ how much of an asshole he can be.”

“I’m _right here_ ,” Phil grumbled.

“That reminds me,” Nick said, taking the carton of fried rice Phil’s hand and replacing it with sweet and sour chicken before Phil could stab him with a chopstick.  “Now that Maria’s no longer a field agent, you need a new asset capable of undercover work.  I’m assigning Agent Romanoff to your team permanently when she clears basic training in two weeks.”

“I don’t suppose I have any choice in this?” Phil said with a sigh.

“No,” Nick said, before he smirked.  “You said it yourself, Phil.  Romanoff joined SHIELD because of Barton.  It makes sense to pair them together.  Anyway, I thought you would have appreciated another deadly, efficient asset to play with?”

Usually Phil _would_ be overjoyed at the prospect of working with someone of Natasha Romanoff’s caliber; their brief alliance in Budapest had proved that Clint and Natasha made a formidable team.  However, there was an edge to his feelings that Phil wasn’t sure he wanted to admit to.  He couldn’t begrudge the call Clint had made, or the actions that followed it, because those instincts had saved his and Phil’s lives.  They’d also saved Natasha’s and she’d repaid that by rescuing them in Russia when she could have just left them there; without her help it would have been a lot harder and taken a lot longer to escape.  It was just that every time Phil thought of her and Clint, his stomach twisted with jealousy.  Clint had been spending all his free time helping Romanoff settle into SHIELD and had even arranged to be one of the trainers for her courses.  They made a beautiful and deadly couple.  Phil was trying to remain professional despite his personal feelings and the fact that he was pretty sure he was falling in love with his asset.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when Maria bumped him with her shoulder.  “You could ask him out for drinks, you know,” she said, her eyes glinting with amusement.

For a moment, Phil glared at her.  “No, I can’t,” he said.  “I’m his handler.”

“Motherfucker,” Nick said from the other side of the table, before a wide grin spread across his face.  “Lusting after the assets?  Cheese, I didn’t know you still had it in you.”

Mentally, Phil grimaced.  The last thing he’d wanted was for people to actually _notice_ his feelings.  “Nothing happened,” he said flatly.  “Nothing _is_ going to happen.”

“It’s not like we strictly enforce our frat regs,” Nick said, looking distinctly amused.  “Do we even have fraternization regs?”

“You’re the Director of SHIELD,” Phil pointed out.  “Shouldn’t you know that?”

“That’s what I have you and Maria for,” Nick said with a grin.  “You know I’m a big picture guy.”

Maria smirked at Phil because she was evil.  “We do have frat regs,” she said, “but nothing that would stop Phil from dragging Barton to bed.”

Phil opened his mouth to reply, but Nick caught him with a narrow-eyed look and he couldn’t quite force the denial out.  “Except, Phil doesn’t just want to sleep with Barton,” he said.  “Shit, you’ve got feelings, don’t you?  Barton?  He’s a cocky smartass.”

“There’s more to him than that and you know it,” Phil defended before he could stop himself and he gritted his teeth when both Nick and Maria grinned at him in reply.  “Shut up,” he muttered.

“I told you that you should ask him out for drinks,” Maria said.  “I know it’s been a while, but that’s how dating usually works.”

Phil turned and arched an eyebrow at her.  “I could say the same thing about you and Jasper, you know,” he said.

Maria coughed and if she hadn’t been a trained SHIELD agent, Phil would bet she’d be blushing too.  “I… there’s nothing…” she said.

“You used to be able to lie better than that,” Phil said with a smirk of his own; sometimes revenge was sweet.

With a huff, Maria glared at him.  “I hate you,” she said.

Nick laughed.

*~*

**Clint’s apartment, New York, 2006**

Cursing loudly and in as many languages as he could think of, Clint hopped on one foot towards the fridge, rubbing the toe he’d just stubbed on his kitchen table.  With his other hand, he opened up the freezer and grabbed an ice block to put on his scalded tongue and huffed.  Mornings sucked, particularly when former Russian assassins paid you unannounced visits at six a.m.

Since Clint had woken to find Natasha staring at him in his own bedroom, he’d blistered his tongue on hot coffee, stubbed his toe and was apparently providing this morning’s entertainment.  With another sigh, Clint crunched the remains of the ice block and gingerly put his abused toe back on the floor.

“You know, you shouldn’t sleep so heavily,” Natasha’s amused voice said from the door.  “I could have killed you three times before you woke up.”

Clint scowled.  “Usually, I don’t,” he said.

Natasha cocked her head to the side as she moved into the kitchen and carefully picked up the second coffee cup.  She didn’t drink from it, which was either paranoia or she’d learned from Clint’s recent example that it would probably scald her tongue.  “So why didn’t you wake up?” she asked.

Clint sighed.  He’d been hoping to have drunk a little more coffee before he had this conversation.  He leant back against the fridge and crossed his arms over his still naked chest.  Usually Clint would feel slightly intimidated wearing only loose sleep pants talking to a beautiful and fully-dressed woman, but this was his kitchen, _damn it_ , and she was the one who had woken him up.  She could deal with it.

“Do you really need to ask that after Budapest?” he said.  “Besides, you rescued me in Russia and apparently, that’s all my subconscious needs to designate you safe.”

Natasha looked faintly amused.  “Does your subconscious do that often?”

“No,” Clint said softly.  “There’s only one other person I trust enough to do that.”  He paused and glanced up.  “So do me a favor and try not to kill me in my sleep, okay?” he added.

Natasha nodded solemnly, but by now, Clint had learnt when she was fucking with him.  “I will try my best,” she said.

“Thanks,” Clint told her dryly.  “So… do you want breakfast before you tell me the real reason why you woke me up excessively early on my day off?”

All he got from Natasha was a shrug in reply, so Clint turned around to check the fridge for anything edible and found nothing but his missing alarm clock sitting next to an old bag of carrots and some miscellaneous condiments.  “Okay,” he said.  “Change of plans.  How about we go out for waffles instead?”

“Coffee is fine,” Natasha said.

Picking up his own mug again, Clint settled back against the fridge and looked levelly at Natasha.  “Are you going to tell me why you broke into my place?” he asked.  “We both know it wasn’t just to practice your B&E skills.”

Natasha looked down at her coffee and then back up at Clint.  The hint of vulnerability was more than Clint had expected from the Black Widow.  “I wanted to ask you about Agent Coulson,” she said.  “Do you trust him?”

Clint covered his momentary surprise by taking a sip of coffee.  Luckily, this time it didn’t burn his tongue.  “Yeah, I do,” he replied.  “He’s the only other person aside from you who can sneak up on me when I’m asleep.”

“And does he sleep with all his assets, or just you?” Natasha said.

Clint choked on his coffee.  “What?” he said.

Natasha shrugged.  “I saw you.  It’s all over your body language.  You’re sleeping with your handler,” she said.  “I just wanted to know if SHIELD is the kind of place where sleeping with your handler is how you get better privileges.”

“No!” Clint said, vaguely horrified by the implication of what she was saying, even though he understood where she was coming from.  “You don’t have to sleep with anyone at SHIELD.  Especially not Coulson.”

“You’re territorial,” Natasha said with a nod and the faint trace of a smirk.  “I understand.”

“What?  No!” Clint sighed.  “I’m not sleeping with Coulson.  We’re just colleagues and friends.”

If Clint just so happened to be in love with the other man, it was no one’s business but his own.

Natasha cocked her head to the side and regarded him thoughtfully for a moment.  “You do want to though,” she said and Clint _knew_ it wasn’t a question.

“You really like to pry into a guy’s life early in the morning, don’t you?” he said, instead of admitting to the elephant in the room.

“Isn’t that how you see if you can trust people?” Natasha said.  “You ask them questions and see how much they lie to you?”

For a moment, Clint just blinked.  There was definitely a whole lot of truth in Natasha’s words, but what struck Clint the most was the lack of hope.  He’d been so close to giving up the hope he could trust anyone when he’d met Coulson in Estonia four years ago and he hadn’t realized how much Coulson had restored that trust since.  Clint looked at Natasha and promised to do the same thing for her.  “Everybody lies,” he said softly, “but I’ve learned that sometimes it’s less important that people lied and more important _why_ they lied.”

“And Coulson taught you this?”

There was a fragile sort of hope in Natasha’s expression and Clint promised himself that he wouldn’t do anything to hurt that.  “Actually, it was Fury,” he told her.

Natasha blinked.  “The Director of SHIELD?”

Clint grinned.  “He recruited me,” he said.  “If you stick around while I throw on jeans, I’ll buy you waffles and tell you all about it.”

*~*

**Temporary SHIELD Base, Mozambique, 2006**

Phil took a deep breath of fresh air and finally let his eyes slide shut for a moment.  The mild afternoon sunlight warmed his face and he let all thought slip from his mind for the first time in days.  The current mission had been long and draining and it wasn’t just Phil who was feeling it.  What should have been a relatively simple raid on a HYDRA base had turned into a large-scale operation to dismantle an entire HYDRA cell.  It was the kind of mission that felt never-ending and Phil was hoping that after they shut down the final HYDRA-linked genetics lab they could wrap things up and head home.  He wanted to sleep for a _week_.

Rolling his stiff shoulders, Phil let the tension bleed out of his muscles and let his posture slump for a minute.  He was exhausted enough that he could have happily curled up just about anywhere and gone to sleep, but as usual Phil had a mission to organize and junior agents to supervise.  He also had a wayward asset somewhere, but considering nothing was exploding, Phil was willing to leave him alone.  Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his sunglasses and slipped them on as he blinked his eyes open again.  He really needed another cup of coffee, Agent Romanoff was due to arrive in a few minutes now that she’d cleared training and Phil really needed to head over to the temporary operations center to ask Jasper how long until they were packed up and ready for transport, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to match his usual efficient haste.  It felt like he hadn’t had a moment to himself since the mission began.

Stepping around the storage hanger, Phil stopped dead in his tracks.

Well, he’d found Clint.

Feeling the tension return to his shoulders, Phil would have rolled his eyes if he had retained the ability to do anything other than stare.  Clint lay sprawled across several netting covered crates in a way that couldn’t be comfortable, his face tilted towards the sky and his boot idly tapping a beat on the ground as he listened to an iPod with one ear.  He looked happy and relaxed, but it was the fact that he was missing half his uniform that had Phil freezing in his tracks, because Clint rarely did anything that wasn’t at least a partial infraction on the rules.  He still wore his combat boots and pants, but somehow both his jacket and t-shirt had gone missing, leaving Clint naked to the waist, and a pair of reflective sunglasses covered those usually sharp eyes.

Phil felt his mouth go dry and his thoughts vaporize as he stared at all the golden skin on display.  He knew Clint kept himself in good shape because it was the only way for the archer to manage to survive half the stunts he pulled, but there was a difference to knowing and seeing all that lean muscle right in front of him.  It wasn’t as if Phil had never noticed Clint was attractive before.  He’d have had to have been blind not to notice Clint’s arms or ass or his amazing eyes that seemed to shift color with his mood; Clint’s usual inability to wear sleeves and his tight jeans regularly made that difficult, but this was a whole different _universe_ of temptation.  A million danger warnings ran through Phil’s head as his gaze strayed for a moment, but not even his infamous control could win this one.  Phil challenged anyone confronted by a half-naked Clint not to stop and stare.

Clint was his asset and therefore off-limits, even if Clint was one of the most tempting and frustrating men Phil had ever met.  Shaking himself out of his daze, Phil walked closer and tried to keep his thoughts as professional as he could.  Clint was seemingly unaware of Phil, but Phil didn’t doubt that no matter the archer’s appearance, he knew exactly who and where Phil was.

“I see you’re working as hard as always, Barton,” Phil teased dryly in greeting.

A smirk flashed across Clint’s face, but he made no move to get up.  “Fuck you, sir,” he shot back.

Eyeing Clint for a moment, Phil tried to read what was beneath Clint’s expression, but he couldn’t quite place it.  There was a tension running through Clint that wasn’t usual and something told Phil it was more than just exhaustion.  “Is everything all right, Barton?” he asked quietly.

Clint shifted slightly and Phil was distracted for a moment by the way his muscles moved under that golden skin.  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Clint said.

“No reason,” Phil replied mildly, before he moved to sit down on the crate next to Clint, who shifted again to make room.

Leaning back to rest on his elbows, Phil resisted the urge to loosen his tie as he tilted his face up towards the sun.  “Are _you_ okay, Coulson?” Clint asked.

“Just tired, Barton,” Phil said, letting his eyes slide closed again.

He heard Clint moving beside him before he felt Clint nudge his shoulder.  “Need me to scare people away while you catch a moment?” he offered.

Phil was very tempted.  Now that he was off his feet his exhaustion was catching up with him and the warm sun was lulling him into a doze.  Clint clearly had the right idea.  Giving in for a few moments, Phil slumped down until he was lying on the crates.  It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but Phil had slept in worse places.  “Shit, Coulson.  You’re really tired, aren’t you?” Clint said quietly from beside him.

Phil hummed in response, keeping his eyes shut against the world for a little longer.  He just needed a minute.  Beside him, Clint gave a rough, soft chuckle.  “I think I have something that will make you feel better, Boss,” he said.  “Open your mouth.”

Immediately, Phil cracked open a suspicious eye and then promptly lost the ability to form coherent sentences.  Clint was _a lot_ closer than he had expected and Phil was caught by the gold in Clint’s now uncovered eyes as he watched the curiosity and amusement flicker through that intent gaze.  Phil could feel the ghost of warmth from where Clint was barely an inch away from being pressed against him and belatedly realized that Clint had propped himself up on his elbow and was leaning over him.

“What?” Phil stuttered, trying vainly to hang onto his scattered thoughts.

“Come on, Coulson.  Trust me,” Clint said, still grinning down at him, but Phil could see the vulnerability behind the confident expression that was a legacy of all the people who _hadn’t_ trusted Clint in the past.  “Just close your eyes and open your mouth,” Clint continued, leering slightly.  “I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

Phil knew he should be saying a dozen dry and sarcastic things to remind Clint this was inappropriate, but none of them wanted to come out.  Instead, he lay there, transfixed by the warmth and amusement in Clint’s eyes and tried to battle the wave of lust that wanted Phil to yank Clint down for a kiss.  Feeling a little ridiculous, Phil nevertheless could only nod helplessly and seize the edge of the crate in a white-knuckled grip as he waited for whatever Clint was about to do.  Clint cocked his head to the side in response as a languid, feline smile spread across his face.  Phil’s stomach did a slow flip as his heart suddenly lodged in his dry throat.

There was a rustle of clothing as Clint shifted, followed by a faint crinkling sound.  A moment later, Phil felt one of Clint’s fingers gently brush his lip and tried not to melt into a puddle on the ground at the rough feeling of callouses against his skin.  The part of his brain that was still functioning was glad he had the crates underneath him because as ridiculous as it was, he didn’t think his knees would have been able to keep him standing.  Phil felt sixteen all over again and really, sixteen hadn’t been that great to begin with.  Then it registered that Clint was trying to feed him something and instead of protesting as he would have with anyone else, Phil let him.  The smooth, rich taste of chocolate melted across his tongue a moment later and Phil couldn’t help his moan of appreciation.

“Are we interrupting something?” Jasper’s familiar and amused voice called out, jolting Phil from his warm, happy daze.  He didn’t miss the way Clint immediately went tense next to him.  “We can come back later, you know,” Jasper added because sometimes Jasper was a little shit.

Feeling suddenly and supremely grumpy for the interruption, Phil refused to feel embarrassed at the position he’d been caught in and sat up.  He reached out a hand when Clint shifted and looked as if he was about to disappear, and was momentarily distracted by the feeling of Clint’s muscular forearm underneath his palm.  “Jasper, shut up,” he told the other agent, who looked about thirty seconds away from doubling over with laughter.  Standing calmly next to him and looking just as amused even though she wasn’t outwardly grinning was Natasha Romanoff.

Gathering as much dignity as he could, Phil nodded in Natasha’s direction.  “Agent Romanoff, I hope you had a pleasant flight,” he said, before he turned to glare as much as he could at Jasper while still wearing his sunglasses.  “I trust nothing is actively exploding at this given moment, Agent Sitwell?”

“Uh, no,” Jasper replied, looking a little uncertain for a moment.

“Good,” Phil said.  “Now go away and give me a minute.”

Turning, Phil caught the tail end of a silent conversation between Clint and Natasha that he couldn’t decipher.  He kept his attention on Clint as the other two agents retreated and noticed the way Clint was carefully trying to pull away from him as if he expected something bad to befall him at any second.  The more insecure part of Phil hoped that it wasn’t something he’d done that had made the archer so uncomfortable, but logically Phil knew that Clint had only become tense and wary after the interruption.  “Something the matter, sir?” Clint asked, not quite looking at him.

“Nothing’s wrong, but I do have a question,” Phil said, noting how Clint tensed even further at his words.  “Was that a piece of _my_ chocolate?  The chocolate I keep in the bottom drawer of my desk all the way back in New York?”

Phil watched Clint carefully, because he already knew the answer.  The dark chocolate was mixed with vanilla and Phil knew it was Clint’s favorite kind of chocolate.  Phil also kept it in an unlocked drawer, which with Clint was practically an invitation to have it stolen; Phil would never admit out loud that that was the reason he made sure there was always Clint favorite chocolate in the drawer.  Clint ducked his head sheepishly, but the wary tension didn’t quite leave his shoulders.  “Yeah,” he admitted quietly.

Bumping his shoulder, Phil smiled to show he wasn’t angry and nothing about what they’d been caught doing was going to make things awkward, no matter what Jasper said.  “Then I suppose I should thank you for sharing your spoils,” Phil said.

Clint looked up at that, his whole expression softening to something that was far too adorable for a sniper of his caliber.  It made Phil want to gather Clint up in his arms and never let go, but he fought back the urge.  “Really?” Clint said.

Phil’s smile widened and warmed without his permission.  “Really,” he agreed, before it was his turn to glance away almost shyly.  “Thank you.  I think I might survive today without killing a junior agent or Jasper now.”

For a moment, Clint looked like he was fighting his response to look endearingly delighted at his words, before the archer clearly gave up and just grinned.  Phil bumped his shoulder again.  “You’d better put your shirt back on, however,” he added.  “Let’s not give the junior agents any more ideas.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint replied, still grinning.

Phil huffed out a chuckle at his ridiculous asset, before smoothing down his tie and standing up.  He’d have to deal with Jasper sooner or later and the longer he left it, the more time Jasper would have to think up ways to tease him about this.  He was lucky he was Phil’s friend or Phil might reach for his tazer.  “Sir?” Clint called out as he was about to head over to where Jasper was still watching them both with avid interest.

Turning, Phil arched an eyebrow at Clint.  “Just in case,” he said, now dressed in a rumpled t-shirt as he tucked what looked like a few pieces of chocolate into the pocket of Phil’s suit jacket.  “I like Jasper.  I’d hate for you to have to kill him.”

“I’ll try to restrain myself,” Phil said, “but only for you.”

Clint smirked.  “Aww, sir, you say the sweetest things.”

Phil rolled his eyes and turned back to deal with Jasper, because it was either that or kiss Clint and really, Phil had promised himself he wouldn’t do the latter, no matter how hard Clint made that promise sometimes.

*~*

**SHIELD Headquarters, New York, 2006**

“Are you sure this can really be classified as food?” Clint asked, well aware he was being irritating and petulant.

Coulson glanced up from his tablet and the four million incident reports that surrounded him and leveled one of his fiercest glares in Clint’s direction.  Clint glanced back down at the green mush he was pushing around his plate and away from Coulson’s glare.  He was pretty sure the mush was the results of a failed science experiment in R&D.

“Yes,” Coulson said, going back to his paperwork.

“Are you _really_ sure?” Clint said, holding out a forkful of the green mush so Coulson could see it.

It wasn’t as if Clint was trying to be purposefully difficult.  He just felt restless and unsettled.  For once, the mission to shut down the HYDRA-linked genetics lab had gone exactly to plan, which meant they’d tied up the final loose end of the HYDRA cell they’d been trying to stop.  He and Natasha had worked seamlessly together and Clint knew that as soon as he and Natasha _really_ trusted each other, they’d be _unstoppable_.  Even Coulson had been impressed.  Yet the feeling of being unsettled persisted; although, truthfully, Clint was pretty sure he knew why.  His head had been spinning ever since Coulson had caught him sunbathing at their temporary base, catching a little rest before they hit the genetics lab.  Clint still didn’t know what to make of what had happened.  Instead of reprimanding him like he’d expected, Coulson had just sat down and joined him, looking more human that Clint had ever seen before, even that time in Denmark after Coulson had been shot in the shoulder.

It wasn’t as if Clint didn’t _know_ Coulson was as human as the rest of them.  He’d seen his handler tired and hurt and angry, and was probably one of the few people who knew just how long and hard Coulson worked, even when he was back at headquarters like today; in fact, Clint would pretty much guarantee he was one of three people who would attempt to coax Coulson out of his office so that he’d actually eat something.  However, _none of_ that had changed the fact that Clint hadn’t been prepared to actually _see_ it.  Even when he was exhausted and grumpy and bleeding, there had always been a tension to Coulson because agents like them never completely relaxed on a mission, no matter who was watching their back.  Part of Clint wondered if it would have been the same if he’d ever been to Coulson’s apartment or invited the other agent over to his.  If Clint had ever seen Coulson completely relax before he’d slumped down next to Clint in a sprawl that practically screamed how exhausted he’d been and turned him indelibly from the calm, unflappable Agent Coulson into a breathing, vulnerable and insanely attractive human being, Clint might not have come so close to kissing him.

Okay, that was probably a lie, but if they’d done that anywhere other than on a mission, Clint would have faced the inevitable rejection in the privacy of either his or Coulson’s apartment.

It was probably a good thing Natasha and Jasper had interrupted them.  Seeing how much Coulson had _trusted_ Clint in a way that had nothing to do with making sure Coulson wasn’t shot by the bad guys had made it practically impossible for Clint to keep his hands to himself, because seriously, how the fuck was he supposed to resist _that_?  Coulson rarely accepted anything at face value and there was a very short list of people Coulson would actually accept coffee from and drink it without checking it over first.  Yet, he’d lain there and let Clint _feed him_.  Clint had barely stopped himself from leaning down right there and kissing the crap out of him.

Coulson grabbed Clint’s wrist, breaking Clint’s thoughts, and shoved Clint’s hand and fork back over his plate before any of the green mush could slide of Clint’s fork onto the files.  Clint tried to ignore how the touch of Coulson’s warm and gun-calloused fingers on the bare skin of his wrist sent a shiver down his spine.  “Barton…” Coulson began irritably, before he let out a sigh and let down of Clint’s wrist.  “Will you just eat it?”

Clint covered the pang of loss he felt when Coulson let go of his wrist with a shrug and shoved the remainder of the mush on his fork into his mouth.  He grimaced in distaste.  _Gross_.  He dropped the fork back to his plate.  “Nope,” he said.  “That’s not food.”

There was a momentary flash of amused frustration in Coulson’s eyes when he looked up from his reports again.  “This from the man who actually _enjoys_ eating MREs,” he said.

“At least I don’t have to worry about MREs suddenly gaining sentience and trying to kill me,” Clint shot back and was rewarded with a quirk of Coulson’s lips as he tried not to smile.

Clint was about to reply when movement caught the corner of his eye and he looked over in surprise to see Natasha gracefully sitting down in the chair next to his.  Clint had been so caught up in teasing Coulson he hadn’t realized anyone else had headed over to their quiet corner of the cafeteria.  Natasha tensed when she realized both he and Coulson were looking at her.  “Am I interrupting?” she asked and Clint could already see she was moving as if she was about to leave.

“Of course not, Agent Romanoff,” Coulson said with a small smile.  “You are more than welcome to join us.  Perhaps you will be able to convince Barton to eat something.  He’s refusing to listen to me.”

Natasha didn’t reply with more than the ghost of a smile and a flicker of her gaze towards Clint, but she did relax into her chair.  “Well, when someone finds me actual food, I might eat it,” Clint said in the silence, mostly because Coulson was expecting him to.

“It’s only peas,” Natasha said, nodding towards the mush on his plate.

Clint scowled.  “Peas are _gross_ ,” he said.

Coulson looked up with an arched eyebrow.  “What are you, _five_?” he said.

Narrowing his eyes, Clint resisted the urge to do something childish, like poke his tongue out at his handler.  “It’s a well-known fact that peas were created by the devil himself,” he said.

“Well then, you must be intimately acquainted with them,” Coulson quipped back, amusement lighting his eyes.

Natasha reached over and grabbed the fork from Clint before he could do more than gasp in feigned insult at Coulson.  With a faint smirk, she ate a large forkful of the mush and Clint grimaced.  “Is there a reason why you’re supervising Clint’s lunch?” she asked, gesturing between Clint and Coulson with the now empty fork.

Clint shrugged.  “Sometimes the prospect of forcing me to eat peas is the only thing that lures him out of his office,” he said with a cheeky grin.

Coulson frowned.  “I have work to do, Barton,” he said, “particularly since one of my assets refuses to fill in most of his own paperwork correctly.”

Glancing over at Natasha, Coulson gave Natasha a smile that was a shade more reserved and blandly polite than the ones he gave Clint.  Coulson was definitely more relaxed around Natasha than he was around most other agents, but there was still a reserve to Coulson when he spoke to her that was kind of obvious after the way he’d been teasing Clint.  “If you want to join us for lunch at any point, Agent Romanoff, you’re more than welcome to,” Coulson told her.

Natasha smiled and shrugged, but Clint could see the faintly awkward slant to her shoulders.  “That… might be nice,” she said.

“For the record,” Coulson said.  “I’m not a handler that wants to dictate the details of my agents’ lives – even when they attempt to hide in the ventilation.”

Natasha smiled again, but this time it was far more genuine.  “Is hiding in the ventilation popular among your agents?” she asked, her face almost as deadpan as Coulson’s usually was, aside from the glint in her eye that gave away her amusement.

Coulson looked at her and arched an eyebrow, before he gave a soft, resigned sigh.  “You two will probably send me crazy, won’t you?” he said.

Clint grinned.  He could see from the way both Coulson and Natasha had relaxed that they were really starting to trust each other and Clint had a sudden premonition of the pair of them ganging up on him when they decided he’d done something stupid.  Maybe Clint should be reconsidering this ‘let Coulson and Natasha be friends’ thing.  “I resent the implication of that, you know,” he said.

Natasha smirked as Coulson huffed out what was probably a bitten back laugh.  “Barton, just eat your peas.”

*~*


	6. 2007

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say a THANK YOU to all the amazing comments and kudos I have got on this fic. You guys are all wonderful and awesome!! <3 <3
> 
> Also, the medical knowledge in this chapter is probably very action movie (and not very correct), so apologies in advance :)

**Tasmanian wilderness, Australia, 2007**

Phil had never been so scared in his entire life.

Considering the dangerous situations he’d been in both in the Rangers and with SHIELD, that was saying something, but it didn’t make it any less true.  In the part of his mind that wasn’t slowly being consumed by dread, Phil was cursing everything from himself to the situation to Clint himself, because this kind of shit only happened to Phil when he was on a mission with the stupid, reckless archer because other agents _didn’t jump in front of bullets_.

Gritting his teeth against the panic that threatened to well up, Phil tried to ignore the way his hands were shaking.  Clint was deathly pale, contrasting to the bright, vibrant red of his blood on Phil’s hands.  The bottom of Clint’s black t-shirt was soaked with blood, the material shining wetly in the dim light filtering through the trees.  Phil had already pulled it up to reveal the nasty, jagged wound low on Clint’s stomach just above his belt from where the bullet had slipped under the edge of his tac vest.  The only thing keep Clint conscious appeared to be sheer force of willpower and Phil was absolutely terrified that this was the mission Clint wasn’t coming back from.

Phil watched as Clint blinked his eyes open and tried to focus on Phil’s face.  “Just… slap a band-aid… on it, sir,” Clint managed to croak out.  “I’ll… be fine.”

Choking back a sob, Phil attempted to glare at Clint, but even he knew the expression lacked its usual weight.  He doubted Clint would need his sharp gaze to read the fear underneath it, either, but Phil was too terrified to hide it.  “Barton, don’t talk,” he said.

Phil ripped open a field dressing with his teeth, before he reached out with a hand for Clint’s belt buckle.  Clint tensed at the movement and bit back the groan of pain it caused.  “What… what are you doing?” he asked, but made no move to stop Phil.

“Relax,” Phil said, pulling out the large gauze pad and trying to cover his fear with a reassuring smile.  “I’m just trying to patch you up.”

“Usually I like to… buy a guy dinner… first,” Clint joked weakly.

Phil looked up and locked eyes with him, absently noticing they were both breathing like they’d just run a marathon.  “This is going to hurt,” he warned.

At Clint’s curt nod, he pressed the field dressing to the wound on Clint’s stomach and watched the muscles of his jaw and neck strain and flex as he bit back a scream.  Clint’s hands dug into the soft, wet dirt beneath him as Phil tried to patch him up as best and quickly as he could.  “I’m almost done,” he whispered, feeling sick to his stomach at the agony on Clint’s face.

Clint sucked in fast breaths between clenched teeth as he nodded back.  Phil wished Natasha was there or that he could call in SHIELD for a medical evac, but stuck in a remote corner of the Tasmanian wilderness like they were he couldn’t risk it.  Not with their target still out there.  Phil carefully didn’t look at the blood on his hands as he finally turned away from Clint to search the rest of the first-aid kit for supplies.  He could still see Clint getting shot every time he closed his eyes, playing in slow motion behind his eyelids.  It had been one of those moments no one could plan for; they’d been tracking their target, a highly-skilled assassin linked to HYDRA and the assassinations of several high profile figures.  It should have been a simple mission, but somehow their target had known they were coming.  He’d spotted Natasha the second they’d gotten close enough and before Phil could tell what was going on, Clint had moved, taking the bullet meant for her.  In the chaos afterwards, Natasha had disappeared.

Phil flexed his fingers, trying to stop the shaking, and pulled out an ampoule of morphine from the first-aid kit.  When he turned to Clint, the archer grabbed his hand with bloodied fingers.  “No…” Clint said and Phil saw the fear in his eyes about being drugged and unable to help watch Phil’s back.  “Please.”

“Clint…” Phil began, his voice so hoarse he almost didn’t recognize it.

“ _Please_ ,” Clint said.

Phil nodded and put the morphine back into the kit.  He hated to see Clint in pain like this, but he understood and he wasn’t going to do anything when Clint had practically begged him not to.  Clint never begged.  Letting out a shaky breath, Phil scanned the trees for any sign of either Natasha or their target, but he didn’t see anything.  “Agent Romanoff,” he said over the comms, feeling a stab of worry underneath his fear for Clint.  “Do you copy?”

The static he got in reply was deafening.

“Natasha?” Clint asked roughly.

“She’s fine,” Phil said immediately, knowing exactly what Clint was worrying about.  “She wasn’t hit.  I think she went after the target, but I can’t raise her on comms.  I think they’re down.”

Clint’s eyes slid shut.  “So, no… rescue chopper, huh?” he said.

“Barton!  Clint, stay with me,” Phil said, fear jolting through him.  “Come on, open your eyes for me, okay?”

Gently, Phil slapped him on the cheek and Clint blinked open his eyes.  Phil had never been so glad to see that sharp gaze in his life.  “Not… getting rid of me… that easy,” Clint said.

“ _Good_ ,” Phil replied, pretending to ignore the way his voice was thick with emotion.

A second later, Phil heard a sound nearby and grabbed his gun on instinct, spinning around to put himself in front of Clint.  When the familiar figure of Natasha ghosted out of the trees, he almost laughed in relief.  She stepped around the trunk of a large eucalypt, looking more than a wired on adrenaline and with a splash of blood on her cheek.  “Target down, sir,” she reported softly.

Phil actually swore out loud in reply.  The look he speared her with had made lesser agents start spilling their guts.  “What the hell did you think you were doing, Agent Romanoff?” he snapped.

Natasha stiffened for a moment, her eyes glancing away from him, before she walked closer and fluidly knelt beside Clint.  “Sir…” she began, but Phil didn’t let her finish.

Without thinking about it, Phil reached over and gently grasped her chin, turning her face so that he could look her straight in the eye.  Part of him was surprised she let him, but most of him was too angry to care.  “I’m not leaving this mission without _either_ of my assets, you hear me?  _Neither_ of you are expendable, not matter how much you think you are,” Phil growled, low and angry.  “And I don’t care how good you are, you _don’t_ go running off without backup.  We’re your _team_ and it’s our job to keep you safe.”

Natasha looked at him, her eyes wide and more surprised than she usually would have shown.  “You were worried about… me?” she said.

Phil resisted the urge to curse out loud again.  “ _Yes_ ,” he said.

Clint quiet chuckle broke the tense silence.  “He worries,” he said.  “It’s kind of… Coulson’s thing.”

A cold sweat had broken out across Clint’s forehead and his jaw clenched against another strangled moan when Phil turned to look at him.  “I thought I told you to stop talking, Agent Barton,” he said, but his anger was giving way to fear again.

He heard Natasha shift beside him, before he registered the feeling of her hand on his shoulder as she briefly pressed up beside him.  She felt surprisingly delicate despite all of her combat gear which was something he never thought he’d associate with the Black Widow.  Phil absently noticed that his hands were shaking again.  “There’s a clearing not far from here,” she told him softly.  “Big enough for a chopper.  They can land there after we radio for help.”

“The comms are down,” Phil heard himself say.

Natasha’s grip tightened on his shoulder for a second, her nails digging in through the soft cotton of his t-shirt; his jacket had already been sacrificed as make-shift pillow for Clint.  The brief stab of pain helped Phil snap back to the present and he blinked the world around him back into focus as he watched Natasha’s nimble fingers slide a heavy radio out of one of her vest pockets.  “I took this from our target,” she said.  “It should work.”

Phil let out a slow breath and nodded.  “Okay,” he said.  “Let’s move.”

Natasha grabbed their gear, carefully handling Clint’s bow and quiver as she slung them both over her shoulder and Phil looked down at Clint.  “Ready?” he asked.

He barely waited for Clint’s nod, before bending down and wedging his shoulder under Clint’s armpit, before carefully hauling the archer to his feet.  From the way the muscles tensed in Clint’s jaw, he bit back curses and groans the whole way and even Phil was panting a little with the effort by the time Clint was on his feet.  Phil watched him carefully, his stomach twisting with fear and nausea as Clint closed his eyes and sucked in a shuddering breath.  “Shit,” Clint muttered when he opened them again.

With Natasha in the lead, they managed to make their way to the clearing she’d found.  It was hard going; Phil was taking most of Clint’s weight and even then, it was hard not to keep from jostling Clint’s wound.  The archer was mostly silent the whole way, only uttering the odd muffled curse as he glared determinedly ahead.  As soon as he could, Phil maneuvered Clint so that he could rest against a tree, although he worried about the pallor of Clint’s face.  Clint attempted to give him a smile in response, his arm braced tightly around his side and his eyes sliding closed as he leaned his head back.

Phil forced himself to turn away and get his focus back on the mission where it was supposed to be.  He caught the radio when Natasha tossed it towards him, digging out his GPS for coordinates to radio in their position over the SHIELD emergency channel.  It took a few attempts before he got a response and when he did, Phil had to shut his eyes on a wave of relief.

“Agent Coulson, your identification code has been confirmed,” the voice crackled over the radio.  “State your status and position.”

Phil immediately rattled off their coordinates.  “We need immediate pickup by a medical team.  I have an asset down,” he said, keeping his tone as authoritative as he could.  “I repeat:  I have an asset down.  Gunshot wound to lower abdomen, losing blood, but still conscious.”

“Copy that, Agent Coulson,” the agent on the other end of the radio said.  “We’re scrambling a medevac now.  Estimated time to your position, eighteen minutes.”

Even though the unnamed agent couldn’t see it, Phil nodded.  “Copy that,” he said.

He opened his mouth to say more, but Natasha’s sharp shout a second later had him reacting on instinct.  “Coulson!”

Phil spun to find Natasha grabbing Clint by the shoulders as he began to sway drunkenly and he had a moment to curse before Clint’s legs buckled.  Dropping the radio, Phil surged forwards to catch him not a moment too soon, grunting as he took Clint’s weight as the archer suddenly dropped like a stone.  He carefully lowered Clint to the ground, his worry ratcheting up as he took in the way Clint’s pale face was twisted in pain.  “Clint, can you hear me?” he said.

“Still… here, sir,” Clint ground out.

Lifting the hem of Clint’s t-shirt, Phil cursed when he saw the bandage underneath was now completely soaked through with blood.  Cursing, he glanced over his shoulder.  “Natasha, grab the…” he ordered, but Natasha was already ahead of him.

Carefully, Natasha’s nimble fingers pressed a fresh field dressing to the wound straight over the other one, Clint letting out a strangled groan of pain at the pressure.  “Stay with me, Clint,” Phil said, pressing his hand to Clint’s cheek, hoping to give him something else to focus on other than the pain.  Phil tried hard not to let the worry he was feeling show on his face, but he had a feeling he was failing anyway.  Clint was white as a sheet and his pulse would give a hummingbird a run for its money.  Phil might not have been a doctor, but he knew this was _bad_.  “We’ve got a medical team on their way, okay?  Just hold on a little longer.”

“The… target?” Clint asked.

“Dead,” Natasha said, shifting to take Clint’s hand now that she’d finished with the field dressing.

“Okay,” Clint said with a shaky breath.  “Could I… have that morphine… now?”

Phil nodded and turned away to fumble with the first-aid kit, trying to hide the way his hands were shaking again.  His hands never shook, except it seemed when Clint was in danger of bleeding out in front of him.  After making sure there were no air bubbles, Phil took Clint’s arm and glanced at the archer just in case he’d changed his mind.  Clint just gave him a faint smile.  “Just don’t start singing lewd drinking songs, Barton,” Phil said as he watched Clint’s eyes lose focus as the morphine hit his bloodstream.

“Awww, sir,” Clint drawled, his accent thickening.  “Don’t be a… spoiler… spoil…  What’s the word?”

“Spoilsport,” Phil said softly.

“Yeah,” Clint said, his smile slightly loopy.  “Don’t be that.”

Phil was helpless to stop the slightly hysterical chuckle that bubbled up in his throat.  “I’ll keep that in mind, Agent Barton,” he said, sagging back against the tree beside him to wait for the chopper.

He was still sitting like that when he heard felt the breeze of the chopper coming into land against his face, one hand over Clint’s beating heart as if it was the most natural thing in the world and one shoulder pressed against Natasha’s where she sat slumped on his other side.

*~*

**West Coast District Hospital, Tasmania, 2007**

Clint grunted at the thump against his ribs that sent pain stabbing through his whole left side from his still healing gunshot wound.  “Ow, shit,” he hissed, not bothering to keep his voice down.  “What the fuck was that for?”

For a moment, the pre-dawn darkness of his thankfully private hospital room was quiet, before Clint’s bedmate rolled over and sent a knee perilously close to his groin.  A hand shoved at his ribs again.  “Move over, Clint,” Natasha grumbled sleepily.

“This is my hospital bed,” Clint grumbled back, but did as she asked, wriggling with irritation when several of the bed’s old lumps dug into his back.

Since Clint had woken up in the hospital three days ago, Natasha had never left his side.  He wasn’t sure how Coulson had managed to bribe or threaten the hospital staff into letting her stay, but he was grateful for it.  He hated being on the drugs the nurses kept feeding him for the pain and having Natasha there to help watch his back helped the itch he got every time he found himself surrounded by doctors.  It would have been better if Coulson had been there himself, but he’d had to fly back to New York to report to Fury.  Clint didn’t envy him that.

He only had vague memories of the mission after he’d been shot, but one of the things he did remember was how scared Coulson had looked.  Clint knew that his handler wasn’t a man who scared easily; he’d seen Coulson stare down drug runners and arms dealers with guns pointed straight at him with barely a flicker of expression.  The fact that the normally unflappable Agent Coulson had been so worried for him – and Natasha – was both terrifying and made Clint’s heart do a long, slow thump in his chest like he was sixteen all over again.  No one had ever cared about him that much before.

Clint shifted in the bed again, his thoughts making him restless and unsettled, because he didn’t know what to do about them.  Natasha’s constant vigilance was easier to deal with, because he understood that; he knew that it was like to want someone to watch his back and to understand what it was like to have secrets and demons that set you apart from the rest of the world and keep you up at night.  Coulson was different.  He was safe and normal and Clint was so in love with him he almost couldn’t remember what it was like to not be in love with his handler.  After another minute of restless shifting, Natasha reached out and pressed her hand firmly to Clint’s chest.  “Okay, okay,” he muttered grudgingly, as he gave in and kept still.

They lay in silence for a moment as Clint listened to the sounds of the hospital waking up outside his room.  The nurses would be in soon to check on him, but until then, Clint was content to lie next to Natasha’s delicate warmth and just breathe.

“Why did you do it?” Natasha asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.  “Why did you take a bullet for me?”

Clint had been waiting for that question for three days, but that didn’t mean he was any closer to figuring out how to answer.  He knew why he’d done it, but the words were difficult.  “You’re on my team,” he said finally.

“Like Coulson?” Natasha asked softly and Clint wished he could see her face.

Carefully, he rolled over onto his side so that he could see the half of Natasha’s face that she hadn’t buried in the pillow.  “Yeah, just like Coulson,” he whispered.

Natasha studied him for a minute.  “Are you ever going to tell him you’re in love with him?”

Clint felt his body tense automatically, before he forced it to relax.  “We’ve got a good thing going.  A good team,” he said.  “I don’t want to ruin it.”

For a moment, Natasha was silent.  “There was something my… handlers at the Red Room used to say,” she said and Clint found himself holding his breath, because Natasha never spoke about her past.  “They used to say love is for children.”

“Do you believe that?” Clint asked softly.

“Yes,” Natasha replied, just as quietly, looking up to meet his eyes.  “In my experience, only children have the luxury to dream.”

There was something heartbreakingly true about her words.  Clint had lost the ability to dream of better things before he was six years old and his life after that only reinforced the lesson.  Yet, recently, he’d found himself hoping and yearning.  SHIELD had taught him that.  Coulson had taught him that.  Maybe he could teach Natasha too.

“You know, my family was pretty shit,” he said and for the first time in a very long time, Clint found himself telling someone all the dark secrets of his past.  He told her about his father, about Barney and his betrayal and about the circus and the Swordsman and Trickshot, somehow feeling lighter for it.  “I’m not trying to say it’s like what you’ve been through,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from all the talking, “because I know it’s not, but I’m beginning to think it’s time I stopped letting them define who I am.”

“I never had a family,” Natasha whispered, curling closer to Clint.  “I mean, I did, I just never knew them.”

Acting on impulse, Clint swallowed his fear and tightened his arm around her waist.  “You do now,” he said.  “I’m not much, just a guy with a lot of bad memories and pretty good aim, but you’ve got me now, if you want me.”

When Natasha looked up at him again, Clint was startled to see her eyes were shining with tears.  “Okay,” she said, her breath shaking a little.  “ _Yes_.  I…” She buried her face in his chest for a moment and Clint held her close as she shivered.  After the shivers stopped, Natasha pushed back a little.  “Don’t think this means I’m going to have sex with you,” she said archly, clearly having regained a little of her equilibrium.

Clint chuckled.  “I think you’re safe,” he said.  “I’ve never found the idea of sleeping with a sibling in any way attractive.”  He gave an exaggerated shudder.  “Besides,” he said, unable to resist teasing.  “You’re really not my type.”

Natasha thumped him in the ribs again and settled down to sleep.  “Liar,” she muttered.

They were still lying curled together like that a few hours later when Clint heard someone enter the room.  Figuring it was just one of the nurses since Natasha hadn’t moved to grab one of the knives she’d stashed under his pillow, Clint didn’t open his eyes.  “Well, isn’t that just adorable,” a familiar dry voice commented from the doorway.  “Like two little kittens.”

Clint blinked open his eyes to glare at Jasper’s grinning face.  “Keep laughing,” he said, “and I won’t try and stop Natasha from stabbing you later.”

Jasper chuckled and walked over to sprawl in the chair next to Clint’s bed.  He shot Clint a smirk when Natasha blinked open her eyes to watch him, but didn’t move.  “Don’t look at me like that,” Clint grumbled.  “You know it’s not what you think.”

“Of course not,” Jasper replied mildly.

“So… why are you here, Jasper?” Clint asked when the other agent didn’t say anything else.

“I’m here to bust you out,” Jasper said.  “Fury sent a medical team to oversee your transport to the SHIELD facility in New York.”

Clint grinned, because that was great news.  “Is Coulson outside haranguing the nurses again?” he asked.

Jasper suddenly looked uncomfortable.  “Actually,” he replied, “Coulson isn’t here.  He’s been put on administrative leave and Fury’s forbidden him from leaving New York.”

Clint felt both of his eyebrows rise.  “Coulson got himself written up?”

“Yeah,” Jasper said.  “Fury was really pissed about you getting shot.  He seems pretty fond of your ass for some reason.  And judging by the yelling his secretary overheard, Fury ripped Coulson a new one for his, and I quote, ‘reckless ass behavior’.”

“Reckless behavior?” Clint echoed skeptically, because he was pretty sure most of what Coulson had been doing on their last mission was trying to stop Clint from bleeding everywhere.

“Yeah,” Jasper said.  “Fury didn’t like the fact that Coulson’s orders led to one of his assets getting shot and the other having to take out a dangerous target by herself.”

“Coulson didn’t…” Clint began at the same time Natasha sat up and said, “But…”

Jasper cut them both off with a shrewd glance.  “But Clint here jumped in front of the bullet of his own accord and you got pissed and went after the target on your own without telling Coulson?” he said to Natasha.  “Yeah, I figured.  I’m pretty sure Fury knows that too, but Coulson’s sticking to his story and won’t admit to anything else.”

“Why?” Natasha demanded.

Jasper grinned again.  “Because he likes you,” he said.  “He’s always had a soft spot for ridiculously dangerous and efficient people.  I think that’s why he and Maria got on so well when they were field partners.”

Clint grinned.  “Maria, huh?” he teased, catching Jasper’s slip.

To his surprise, Jasper blushed.  “Shut up,” he muttered.  “It was only drinks.”

When Clint simply raised an incredulous eyebrow in an expression he may have stolen from Coulson, Jasper scowled.  “Okay, I’m taking her out to dinner on Friday,” he admitted, before pointing an accusing finger at Clint.  “I don’t have to take this from a man who follows Coulson around like a lost puppy.”

This time, it was Clint’s turn to scowl.  “I do not,” he said.

Natasha nudged him with a faint smile on her face.  “You do,” she said.

“See?” Jasper said smugly.

Clint glared at him.  “I hate you.”

“Aww,” Jasper said, reaching over to ruffle Clint’s hair before Clint could slap his hand away.  “Don’t worry, Hawkeye.  I’ll have you back in New York and Coulson’s company before you know it.”

*~*

**Phil’s apartment, New York, 2007**

With a deep sigh, Phil turned off the TV and tossed the remote down on the couch next to him.  He was bored and restless and probably about another five minutes away from pacing around his apartment again.  Phil had already cleaned everything from top to bottom – _twice_ – and he didn’t have a pet or friendly neighbors or even a plant to distract himself with.  A fact Fury had no doubt been aware of what he’d sent Phil home on administrative leave six days ago.

It didn’t help that Phil was plagued with thoughts of Clint.  It had been two days since Fury had authorized Clint’s transfer from the hospital back to SHIELD headquarters, so logically Phil knew the archer was okay and probably driving all the SHIELD medical staff crazy.  However, logic was little comfort when he couldn’t see that Clint was okay for himself.  Phil was still locked out of all SHIELD facilities because Nick could be a bastard when he was pissed.

“Will you stop that?” Maria said with a sigh, looking up from where she was curled up in one of Phil’s armchairs reading a book.

Phil let out a sigh of his own as he slumped back against the couch.  Five seconds later, he got to his feet after he decided maybe he wanted some tea.  “You know, you could just be a normal human being and call him!” Maria called after him.  “I’ve only been telling you that for the last year!”

Instead of literally growling at her like he wanted to, Phil settled for sticking his head back into the living room and glaring at her.  “Yes, thank you, that’s just what I need to make this better,” he muttered sarcastically.

Maria rolled her eyes.  “Fine,” she sighed.  “Then do you mind brooding quietly?  I’m trying to finish this chapter.”

“I am _not_ brooding,” Phil said.

Arching an eyebrow, Maria gave him a pointed look, before she went back to her book.  Deciding to ignore Maria for the sake of his temper, Phil tried to calm his restlessness by making a pot of herbal tea, but he wasn’t sure even that would do anything.  Clint’s deathly pale face was still all too fresh in his mind and with it, came all the feelings Phil thought he’d suppressed.  Nick had been right; Phil _had_ come close to losing it on the last mission solely because it was Clint who was the one who was hurt.  Instead of his usual calm professionalism, he’d been acting like a rookie.  Maybe Nick was right to suggest Phil put some distance between himself and Clint so he could regain a little perspective.

Of course, Phil still felt like he’d rather shoot himself in the foot than actually go through with that.

A knock at his apartment door shook Phil out of his thoughts and he felt his stomach give a traitorous twist.  Hope soared for a moment as Phil imagined that somehow Clint was on the other side of the door, despite the fact that Clint had never been to his apartment before and had recently been shot.  Phil cursed himself for being ridiculous.  Tamping down on his riotous emotions, Phil nevertheless smiled when he checked the peephole and saw Jasper’s face smiling back.

“Hey, Jasper,” he greeted when he swung open the door.

“I bring wine and food!” Jasper announced, handing Phil a bottle and heading straight for the kitchen.

Phil rolled his eyes and followed, but the scene of pasta and garlic bread, as well as the prospect of wine, was beginning to quiet Phil’s restlessness a little.  “I see Maria hasn’t managed to strangle you yet,” Jasper said as he grabbed plates and silverware.

“I’m sure she probably wanted to at least once,” Phil replied, heading to the cupboard to find the wine glasses.  “Is there any news…?”

“Barton’s _fine_ ,” Jasper said, rolling his eyes and shoving a plate full of pasta into Phil’s hands.  “When I left, he was flirting happily with all the nurses.  You can see for yourself on Monday if he hasn’t escaped into the ventilation by then.”

Giving Phil a gentle shove out of the way, Jasper grabbed the other two plates and walked into Phil’s living room as Phil grabbed the wine and followed.  He didn’t miss the way Maria looked up from her book with a soft smile at Jasper’s entrance.  “So how’s he been all day?” Jasper asked as they both curled up next to each other on the couch.

“Like a bear with a sore tooth,” Maria replied, glancing over at Phil with an evil smile.  “I don’t know why you don’t give up and tell Barton how you feel already.  It would definitely make things more peaceful.”

Phil scowled and decided he was going to need wine for this conversation.  “Just admit it,” Jasper said and Phil could see the laughter in his dark eyes and the hints of a cheeky smile that threatened to spread across his face.  “You’re _in luuurve_ with Barton.”

“Stop making me sound like a Disney Princess,” Phil muttered.

Jasper simply let out his cheeky grin and shrugged when Phil threw an irritated scowl in his direction.  “You’re cute when you get all huffy,” he said.  “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Shut up, Jasper,” Phil growled, but there was no heat in his words, even though he punctuated them by throwing a nearby cushion at Jasper’s head.

Both Maria and Jasper were quiet for a moment and Phil thought they were going to leave the issue alone, although he probably should have known better.  “So what are you going to do about it?” Maria asked.

With a groan, Phil let his head drop back against the chair he was sprawled in and stared up at the ceiling for a moment.  “I have absolutely no fucking idea,” he sighed, letting his eyes close.

“I vote you just tell him,” Jasper said.  “Let’s face it, your professionalism is pretty much fucked anyway when it comes to Barton and I really don’t think your feelings are as one-sided as you keep telling me they are.”

“That’s easier said than done, you know,” Phil said, opening an eye to look at Jasper and ignoring the way his stomach was twisting itself into knots at the idea of confessing everything.  “Besides, I’m his handler and before you say anything, Barton’s been screwed over by too many people who should have taken care of him and I’m not going to take advantage like that.”

Maria snorted.  “Do you really think Barton would have a problem telling you where to shove it if he didn’t want something?” she asked.

Phil opened his mouth to reply, but Maria just rolled her eyes and cut him off.  “Think about it, Phil.  Maybe Barton would have gone along with it just because when he first got to SHIELD, but that’s not who he is any more.  You’re probably the only one who doesn’t see it.  He calls other agents out when they’re making the wrong call and backs it up with reasons and strategy, not just because he’s a smartass.  He’s a brilliant tactician and he probably always was, but now he doesn’t care who sees it.  He’s comfortable at SHIELD, Phil, and he knows his worth as an agent.  He’s not going to go along with something just to keep his place here, but I think he’d really appreciate a clue about how you feel about him.”

Phil blew out a loud breath.  “Yeah, because confessing this kind of shit is easy,” he said.

“The things that matter are rarely easy,” Jasper said.  “And I know talking about your emotions is something you seldom do, Phil.  But seriously, you’re so in love with Barton you’re being stupid and besides, don’t you think Barton deserves to know there’s someone out there in the world that knows all his flaws and loves him regardless?”

Phil opened and shut his mouth a few times, before he sighed and nodded.  “Yeah, okay,” he said.  “You’re right.  I just… I’ll tell him.  Somehow.”

Maria rolled her eyes again.  “It won’t kill you,” she said.

Glaring at her, Phil raised an eyebrow.  “You know, you two can stop being smug about this whole thing.  Neither of you were that much better than me at confessing feelings.”

“Maybe,” Jasper said with a smirk.  “But at least I manned up and said something.”

“Shut up,” Phil grumbled.

“Phil, eat your pasta,” Maria said when neither he nor Jasper did anything other than glare at each other for a minute.  “And you,” she said, turning to Jasper.  “Hand over the remote and no one gets hurt.”

“See?” Jasper said with a dopey grin as he handed Maria the remote without protest.  “Confessing your feelings is totally worth it.”

“You,” Phil told him, not quite able to keep the smile off his face, “are _deranged_.”

“Happy,” Jasper corrected.  “The word you’re looking for, Phil, is _happy_.”

Watching Jasper and Maria bicker over the TV for a moment, Phil had to concede that as irritatingly smug as they both were, they probably had a point.  Confessing his feelings to Clint might be scarier than facing down an entire HYDRA cell on his own, but if he had the chance to be happy, it might just be worth it.

Right?

*~*


	7. 2008

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter is a big of a long one, but I'm hoping no one minds about that too much ;) Thank you to everyone who read this and kudosed and commented. You are all amazing <3
> 
> Also, this chapter contains my first ever attempt as sort-of smut, so apologies for it in advance.

**Repulse Bay, Hong Kong, 2008**

Clint yawned as he wandered over to the large windows to watch the sun finish rising over the spectacular view of Repulse Bay and the South China Sea beyond.  As mission bases went, this was probably the nicest one Clint had ever stayed in, hands down.  Logically, he knew it was part of Coulson’s cover as the wealthy entrepreneur Richard Cole, but that didn’t mean Clint wasn’t going to enjoy waking up to an en-suite and million dollar views every morning.  It certainly beat where Jasper and the support team were staying.

“Any sign of someone watching?” Natasha asked as she appeared beside him on silent feet.

“Not yet,” Clint replied, taking a sip of coffee, “but I’ll take a better look when I take my morning patrol.”

“Good,” Natasha said and Clint raised a questioning eyebrow at her.  “If I was about to sign a deal with someone who’d hinted at knowing as much as Coulson has, I’d have them under watch,” she explained softly.

The mission was a relatively simple one, or at least as simple as they got for SHIELD, probably because Fury still had orders out for Clint to go easy after being shot three months ago.  For once, it was Coulson who was taking the lead on the undercover mission, pretending to be an entrepreneur with enough shady contacts to be attractive to a group of wealthy businessmen SHIELD suspected were funding HYDRA.  Natasha was playing his trophy wife, which she’d rolled her eyes at several times, while Clint was relegated to playing their bodyguard.  Truthfully he didn’t mind that so much.  There were far worse places to be than watching Natasha and Coulson’s backs.  Plus, he actually got to live in the luxury house, which Jasper and the junior agents didn’t get to do, even though Coulson hadn’t let him actually drive the sleek Maserati they had parked outside yet.

“Is the meeting all set for later?” Clint asked, breaking the silence as both he and Natasha studied the landscaped grounds outside the townhouse.

“Yes,” Natasha replied.  “Coulson’s going to meet with the targets at one o’clock to sign the paperwork.”

Clint nodded.  He had an itchy feeling between his shoulder-blades and he couldn’t figure out why.  Everything was going smoothly and the mission was on schedule with no obvious signs as to why that would change.  Maybe it was the new tension that seemed to run through Coulson every time he looked at Clint, but something was making him itch and Clint couldn’t help but feel things were going to end up blowing up in their faces.  It didn’t help that he still wasn’t quite a hundred percent, despite the physiotherapy and the ruthless training regime he’d put himself through after being discharged from medical; for once in his life he’d also waited for the doctor’s to release him before he’d escaped, not that Coulson had been around to see it.  Fury had sent him off on a mission to Europe almost as soon as he’d been back from administrative leave.

“Are you okay?” Natasha asked him softly and when Clint glanced at her, he saw her eyes were soft with concern.

He blew out a sigh. “Yeah,” he said.  “Just a little twitchy, you know.”

“I keep telling you a few rounds of athletic sex with Coulson would fix that,” Natasha smirked somewhat evilly, “but you refuse to listen to me.”

“Nat…” Clint started, refusing to blush even a little bit, but Natasha just gave him an impish smile and sauntered over to the coffee pot.

“Shouldn’t you be putting on a shirt and doing a morning patrol or something?” she called out over her shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Clint grumbled, but headed back to his room anyway to change into his uniform of black t-shirt, sunglasses and jeans.

By the time Clint had completed his morning patrol around the grounds and checked all the small traps he’d laid to alert them if anyone tried to attack the house, Coulson was awake and standing blearily in the kitchen.  He looked more exhausted than Clint had expected and he couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with the new tension between them.  Clint still couldn’t remember much of their last mission after he’d been shot, but he was pretty sure Coulson had looked more worried than someone who was just a handler should.  Of course, Coulson had disappeared pretty much straight afterwards and Clint was still trying really hard not to take that personally.

“Morning, Coulson,” he greeted as he walked over to pour himself another cup of coffee as Phil moved to give him space.

“Clint?” Coulson said and Clint hummed questioningly in reply as added several spoons of sugar to his mug.

“We’ve known each other for six years now.  Are you ever going to call me Phil?” Coulson asked.

Clint looked up and blinked.  Calling him Phil, even in his head, still felt weirdly intimate.  It didn’t help that Coulson was standing there without his usual suit jacket and tie, his shirt untucked and the last three buttons still undone.  Like that, without half his Agent Coulson armor on, he looked soft and approachable and more like _Phil_ than he usually did in the middle of a mission.  In any other situation, standing around the kitchen like this could be called domestic.  Clint felt his mouth go dry; he hadn’t realized how much he actually wanted that until now.

Thankfully, his reply was interrupted by Natasha’s entrance, although from the look she shot him, Clint hadn’t been quite as subtle as he’d hoped when he’d shoved the coffee mug into his mouth for a drink.  “Anything outside?” she asked Clint.

“Nothing that I can see,” Clint told her.

“Good,” Natasha said, before she smirked at Clint.  “I’m going outside for a swim.  Try not to get into trouble while I’m gone.”

Coulson smiled faintly and nodded towards the large table just off the kitchen.  “I’m going to go over the files for the meeting this afternoon,” he said.  “I highly doubt I’m in danger of getting anything more than a paper cut.”

When Coulson turned away to walk over to the table like he said, Natasha sent Clint a sharp glance and jerked her head towards Coulson without any of her usual subtlety.  Clint scowled at her because of course _now_ was the moment his demonic best friend wanted him to talk to Coulson about his _feelings_.  Clint made his own jerky motion towards the pool and gave her a glare that hopefully told her to butt out of things.  Natasha rolled her eyes at him, but nevertheless gave up with a silent huff.  Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she headed outside to the pool, clearly having decided to ignore Clint for a while.  Clint was fine with that.

Walking a little awkwardly over to the table where Coulson appeared to have settled and was already viewing what looked to be more financial details on his laptop, Clint hovered a moment beside the chair opposite Coulson.  “Mind if I join you, Bo… uh, Phil?” he asked clumsily, his tongue tripping over the unfamiliarity of calling Coulson by his first name.  “I was hoping to go over the building blue-prints before the meeting again.”

Coulson – _Phil_ – looked up with a hint of surprise in his expression that morphed into a warm smile. “Not at all,” he said, passing over the print out of the blueprints as Clint sat down.  “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Sure thing,” Clint replied.

Ignoring his increasingly confusing and inappropriate thoughts, Clint concentrated on the mission at hand and soon lost himself in going over all the details and security concerns he’d had with the building where Coulson was meeting the shady businessmen.  Normally he wouldn’t nearly be so worried about potential sniper perches, but this time he was going to be _inside_ the building with Phil rather than outside and the lack of sightlines was another thing that was making him twitchy.  He finally surfaced from his thoughts at the sound of Natasha wandering back inside from the pool and had to roll his eyes at her irritated look.  He was a professional, thank you very much, and just before a crucial and hopefully final meeting on a mission was not a good time for an emotional discussion.

Natasha clearly disagreed if her darkening expression was anything to go by.

Glancing away from her glare, Clint caught sight of the way Phil was frowning at his laptop screen.  “Bad news?” he asked.

Phil’s expression was a little surprised when he looked up, before he sighed softly.  “Yes.  No,” he said.  “I don’t know.”

“What did you find?” Clint asked softly, knowing that if something was setting off Phil’s instincts, it was definitely worth figuring out.

“That’s the problem,” Phil said, his frown deepening.  “I can’t put my finger on it, but something it definitely bugging me.”

“Is it something to do with the setting of your meeting later?” Clint asked, getting up to come around the table to peer at what Phil had been working on.  “There are a few too many sightlines for me to be completely comfortable with it, but the sniper would have to be pretty good to make most of them and there’s at least two ways out of the restaurant that have marginal cover.”

“No, that’s not it,” Phil said, turning so that he could look at Clint and Clint belatedly realized how far he was leaning over Phil’s shoulder when he found his face merely inches away from Phil’s.  This close, Phil’s eyes were startlingly blue and Clint had to clear his throat twice as he leaned back a little.

_Shit, Barton, kissing your handler would be a real bad idea right now_ , he told himself.

“Is it something about the guys you’re meeting?” Clint asked, trying to ignore the way he could feel his cheeks had flushed and hoping that Phil wouldn’t mention it.

“Maybe,” Phil conceded and _holy shit_ , were _Phil’s_ cheeks turning faintly pink too?

“Don’t Sitwell and the support team have eyes on all the targets?” Natasha said, walking back into the room toweling her hair.  Clint hadn’t even realized she’d left.

Clint and Phil sprang apart like they’d been doing something far more inappropriate than just leaning in close and wow, Clint really did not appreciate Natasha’s smirk right now.  “Ah, yes,” Phil said as Clint retreated around to his side of the table again.  “However, nothing in the surveillance indicates anything is off about the meeting.”

“So then what’s the problem?” Natasha asked, smacking Clint lightly on the back of the head as she walked passed while Phil wasn’t looking.

Clint glared at her.

Phil let out another sigh.  “It’s probably paranoia,” he said.

“It’s not paranoia if the ninjas really are trying to kill you, Boss,” Clint said.

Huffing, Phil looked up with what was clearly supposed to be a stern expression, but the whole effect was pretty much ruined by the humor in his eyes.  Clint grinned back because he loved that expression on Phil.  “Well, if you spot the ninjas, Hawkeye, don’t forget to let us know,” Phil said dryly.

*~*

Finally giving up on searching for whatever was niggling at him about the mission, Phil grabbed his half empty cup of coffee and headed outside onto the deck to look over Repulse Bay, half hoping the fresh air would help clear his thoughts.  He walked over to the railing at the edge of the deck and leaned against it, letting his eyes drift out over the light blue ocean as he sipped his coffee.  He felt his lips curve into a faint smile as Natasha settled silently at the railing beside him.

“Is everything okay?” Phil asked her, not taking his eyes off the ocean.

“I could ask you the same question,” Natasha replied.

Phil watched the waves break against the beach for a moment, before he turned to glance at her.  “It’s just a lingering bad feeling,” he said, offering her a reassuring smile.  “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Natasha arched a faintly reproachful eyebrow at him, before turning and leaning her back against the railing so she could gaze at the house.  She was quiet for a moment, before she looked over at him again.  “Your bad feelings are rarely nothing,” she said, “but that’s not what I was referring to.”

“Oh?” Phil said, trying to ignore the way his heart suddenly sped up.

A faint smirk curved her lips.  “We’ve still got a few hours before you need to be at that meeting,” she said, suddenly changing the subject.  “Have you and Clint thought about doing a little sightseeing?  Stanley Market isn’t too far from here.”

Phil blinked at her, because he couldn’t help but feel Natasha was trying to tell him something.  “We are still in the middle of a mission,” he pointed out.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Natasha said, her smirk growing.

Quirking an eyebrow at her, Phil tried to figure out what she was up to.  Like Clint, Phil tended to _always_ assume she was up to something, but this time it felt like it was something to specifically do with him.  “Worried about Clint getting cabin fever?” he asked, because he’d been wondering that a little himself; Clint had seemed restless for days and Phil knew there wasn’t much for the archer to do when he was stuck playing mindless bodyguard.

“Phil,” Natasha said flatly and Phil blinked in surprise at her accusing expression.  It seemed to be saying, _Are you being this stupid on purpose?_

“What?” Phil said, irritated with himself when he heard the edge of defensiveness in his tone.

In reply, Natasha rolled her eyes towards the house and Phil followed her gaze to find Clint framed clearly in the large kitchen windows as rummaged through several cupboards.  He was stripped to the waist and still clearly sweaty after a workout in the house’s gym and Phil felt his mouth go dry.  It was hardly the first time Phil had seen Clint with his shirt off, but it was almost embarrassing the way the sight made Phil, who was used to being in control of his own mind, lose all train of thought and stare stupidly.  Finally finding whatever it was that he’d been looking for, Clint grabbed a small, colorful box out of the cupboard and shut the doors as he reached for a coffee mug with his other hand.  Phil absolutely did not watch the way the muscles in Clint’s back moved enticingly under his skin as he stretched.

“Coulson?” Natasha asked, poking him in the side.

With a jerk, Phil snapped his attention away from Clint, who was now eyeing the coffee maker like it was a rattlesnake, only to find Natasha’s gaze on him, her eyes dancing with a knowing humour.  “Distracted by the view?” she asked mildly.

To Phil’s utter embarrassment, he flushed.  “Did you engineer that?” he said with growing suspicion, gesturing in the direction of the kitchen windows, where Clint was now happily adding what looked like smarties to a cup of coffee.

“Well, I seem to remember a not dissimilar moment involving a shirtless Clint and chocolate in Mozambique,” Natasha teased gently.  Then she laughed softly as they both watched Clint stumble towards the freezer and sulkily put an ice-block on his tongue as he glared at his coffee mug.  “Although, he really needs to learn not to drink scalding coffee.”

Phil forced himself to turn back to the ocean view before Clint caught him staring.  Gently, Natasha nudged his shoulder with hers as she did the same.  “That wasn’t meant to be a criticism,” she said.

“It’s not a good idea,” Phil said, attempting to cover his reluctance by taking a sip of coffee.

“Why not?” Natasha demanded.

Phil glanced at her.  “I’m his handler,” he began, but Natasha cut him off with a sharp look.

“Don’t start with that,” she said.  “Clint _trusts_ you and we both know that means more than anything else. Stop hiding behind excuses.”

“Being his handler _should_ matter,” Phil said.  “As the senior agent and his team leader, I should have professional distance…”

Natasha snorted.  “You didn’t have professional distance when he was shot in Tasmania,” she pointed out.

“No,” Phil admitted.  “I didn’t.”

They stood in silence for a long moment, before Natasha nudged his shoulder again.  “You should tell him,” she said.  “I can almost guarantee Clint will find changing handlers or whatever you think is necessary worth it.”

A bittersweet smile on his face, Phil turned to her.  “Will he?” he said, trying to ignore the memories of times when someone had decided he _hadn’t_ been worth it play through his mind.

Natasha’s glare warned him he was being stupid again.  “Do you love him or not?” she demanded.

Despite the uncertainty he was feeling, Phil couldn’t stop the warm, soft expression that crossed his face when he thought of Clint and knew his smile had turned a little sappy.  “Yes,” he said firmly, because he wasn’t uncertain about _that_.  “I do.”

“Then _tell him_ ,” Natasha said, punching him in the arm for emphasis.  “You’ve both been dancing around each other for almost as long as I’ve known you.”

Phil bit back the grin that wanted to break across his face.  He knew Jasper and Maria had been trying to tell him the same thing for months, but somehow hearing it from Natasha made it more real.  Phil figured it was probably because she was so close to Clint; if anyone knew what the archer’s true feelings were, it would be Natasha.  She was also fiercely protective of Clint and Phil knew she wouldn’t do anything to deliberately hurt him.  It loosened the feeling of doubt in Phil’s chest, but it didn’t make it disappear completely.  Phil was a pragmatic man and he knew he wasn’t what a lot of people would consider a catch – he was too paranoid and too much of a workaholic for that – and his relationships tended to… fail.  Messily.

“You’re brilliant, dedicated and one of the deadliest and most loyal men I’ve ever met, Coulson,” Natasha said, her eyes soft and her face free of masks in a way it rarely was, “but when it comes to your feelings, you’re kind of useless.”

Phil gave a wry laugh.  “I know,” he said.  “Sometimes, it’s just hard to not let the past dictate the future.”

“Yes, it is,” Natasha said, her voice heavy with understanding.  “Why do you think I’m living vicariously through you and Clint?”

This time, Phil’s laughter was warm and genuinely amused.  “You’re a good friend, Natasha,” he said. “Thank you.”

Natasha shifted so that she was leaning against Phil’s side for a moment.  Lifting his arm, Phil gave her shoulders a brief squeeze in a short, one-armed hug.  “Thank me by actually telling Clint how you feel,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Phil replied.

He’d try.

*~*

**Intercontinental Hotel, Hong Kong, 2008**

Clint attempted to keep his face impassive as possible as he followed a step behind Phil as they entered the lavish lounge bar of the Intercontinental Hotel, but nothing could hide the way his eyes were moving around the room, assessing threats.  The large, floor-to-ceiling windows showed a stunning view of Victoria Harbor and Hong Kong Island beyond and in any other situation, Clint would have loved to curl up in one of the comfortable-looking couches and just watch for a while.  However, considering he was pretty sure the mission was about to go to shit, he wasn’t going to get the luxury of doing that this time.

It turned out Phil’s bad feelings had been as accurate as always.  Just after Clint had finished his workout and made himself a cup of coffee, Jasper had called with the news that they HYDRA-linked syndicate of businessmen there were supposed to be thwarting was actually due to close a deal with someone else, which is why they hadn’t been watching Phil, Natasha and Clint.  They’d scrambled in an effort to stop the deal and Phil had decided to try and use his cover to derail the meeting rather than just sending in Jasper and the rest of the SHIELD team, because SHIELD still needed access to the syndicate’s funding network and they probably wouldn’t get that if they just arrested everybody.  Clint didn’t like it though. This meeting was held in a different bar to the one Clint had already scoped out and the lack of planned escape routes was already making him twitchy.  The twitchy feeling wasn’t helped by the way that Clint had had to leave his bow behind; both he and Phil carried guns and Clint had made sure to hide several of his knives on himself as well, but the fact still remained that they were walking into an unknown situation with limited weapons and Clint couldn’t guarantee he’d be able to keep Phil safe.

As they crossed the lounge to where the syndicate was sitting, Natasha briefly caught Clint’s eye from where she’d slipped in and taken a seat by the window near the syndicate, her red hair carefully hidden. Scanning the room again, Clint blinked as he spotted another familiar face.  Was that Agent Reid serving drinks?

Turning his attention back to the syndicate, Clint watched the way the businessmen were now all watching Phil with varying surprised expressions.  Clint already knew that Phil could cut and impressive figure when he wanted to, but the expertly tailored black three-piece suit and his sharp-eyed expression seemed to make him even more sleek and dangerous than usual.  Clint had found himself lost for words the first time he’d seen Phil in that suit and truthfully, he’d had to try really hard not to trip over his tongue every time since as well.  Phil looked _really good_ in that suit.

Clint had to hide a smirk when Phil walked straight up to the syndicate and sat down on one of the couches as if he’d been expressly invited.  “Gentlemen,” he greeted with a polite smile that for once did nothing to hide Phil’s sharp edges.

Taking up position behind Phil, Clint tried to look as imposing as he could as he kept an eye on the rest of the room; he’d grown up in the circus, so he knew exactly how to set the stage for the effect they wanted.  From the way the businessmen were all now shifting nervously in their seats, the effect was working.  Clint hid another smirk when Phil gave an imperious snap of his fingers and Agent Reid in his waiter’s outfit immediately appeared by his side with Phil’s cover’s favorite drink.

“Mr Cole, we were just…” Bernard Tang, the head of the syndicate began.

“Oh, I know what you were doing, Mr Tang,” Phil said.  “I’m just here because I’ve decided to size up the… competition.”

Phil was having fun with this, like a cat toying with a mouse.  Clint had to remind himself that they were in the middle of a mission and it was more important to cut off funding to HYDRA than for Clint to yank Phil up by his burgundy tie and kiss him stupid.  No matter how much Clint really, _really_ wanted to.

Before anybody could say anything else, the doors to the bar slammed open and several large men moved into the room, followed by two men in suits who looked as dangerous as Phil did.  Clint didn’t need to hear Tang’s gasp or to see the way the other members of the syndicate tensed to realize that HYDRA had just arrived.  One of the men in suits was actually carrying a _cane_ with the HYDRA tentacle skull thing on top.  Clint had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, even as he knew HYDRA’s sudden appearance didn’t bode well for their plan.

Attempting to hide his sudden nerves, Tang rose smoothly and fixed a polite smile on his face.  “Mr Wilhelm,” he greeted.  “What an unexpected surprise.”

“Surprises are by nature unexpected, Mr Tang.  That’s what makes them surprises,” the man with the cane replied with a faint German accent.  “Do you want to know what I was recently surprised about, Mr Tang?  The lack of agreed upon funds in my account.”

Phil had risen gracefully to his feet during this exchange and Clint felt him lean in close enough to speak in Clint’s ear.  “I think it’s time for Plan B,” he said quietly.

“What’s Plan B?” Clint asked as the conversation between Tang and Wilhelm became even tenser, trying not to shiver at the feeling of Phil’s warm breath on his cheek and the way they were standing almost close enough to touch.

“Getting out of here before someone starts shooting,” Phil said dryly.  “And also before Tang realizes I’ve just stolen his laptop.”

Clint looked down to see Phil holding a leather laptop bag, before glancing back up at Phil’s pleased and amused expression.  “You,” Clint said, “are _sneaky_.”

“Glad you approve, Barton,” Phil said in that dry tone Clint loved because it meant that Phil was trying really hard not to roll his eyes.

As tense silence had descended over Tang and the HYDRA goons and if it wasn’t for the lack of visible weapons, Clint figured it would have been a standoff.  Thankfully, none of them appeared to be paying too much attention to either him or Phil, but there wasn’t much cover in the open space bar and HYDRA still stood between them and the exit which meant getting out wasn’t going to be easy.  There were also a lot of innocent people sitting around and Clint was reluctant to get into a fight with Wilhelm and his thugs just in case someone got hurt, even though he knew he and Phil could probably take him – and that was before Natasha got involved.

Phil seemed to have come to the same conclusion, because he glanced at Clint and pressed the handle of the laptop bag into his hand.  Catching his cue, Clint took the laptop bag and carefully hid it out of sight behind Phil as the other agent turned towards Tang and Wilhelm.  “Well, isn’t this a situation?” Phil drawled, breaking the tense silence.

Wilhelm glanced over at Phil, briefly looking him over, before dismissing him just as quickly.  Clint wanted to snort at HYDRA’s typical stupidity.  “I don’t have time to deal with flunkies, Mr…?” Wilhelm said arrogantly.

“Cole,” Phil said, sounding completely unconcerned at the dismissal.  “And in that case, I’ll just leave.”

“Wait,” the second suited HYDRA man said suddenly, his eyes narrowed as they glared at Phil.  “I know you.”

Phil tensed and Clint had the distinct feeling of realizing everything was about to turn messy.  “I don’t believe we’ve ever met,” Phil said.

“We…” the man began, before his eyes went wide.  “You’re a SHIELD agent!”

Clint immediately went for his gun, as did several of the HYDRA thugs.  Very conscious of the fact that there was barely any decent cover to hide behind if people started shooting, Clint nudged Phil forwards in an attempt to suggest he should start running for the door.  However, even as he did, Clint barely had a moment to register the way all the HYDRA goons suddenly pulled back as if ordered, before the force of a large explosion ripped through the building.  Clint felt himself thrown sideways, his head slamming into something hard as he crashed through a table, before everything went black.

Well, _fuck_.

*~*

His head pounding, Phil struggled to blink away the black spots in his vision after he’d been slammed into one of the lounge’s columns by the explosion.  He was lying underneath the remains of a table and the feeling of hot, sticky blood trickling from his temple explained why he was finding it so hard to focus.  He could feel carpet beneath his hands and his ribs ached from where something large and heavy had hit them, but aside from what felt like some nasty bruises and a knock to the head, he was okay.

Cursing in several languages under his breath as he attempted to push himself up, Phil tried to remember where he’d last seen the HYDRA thugs.  He needed to find out where they were, find Clint and Natasha and get out of there, particularly before the Hong Kong police showed up.  His throbbing head was making it hard to focus and Phil feared he might have actually cracked his thick skull this time.  Phil pushed the explosion debris off him as he looked up and around at the room, only to freeze when he heard gunfire erupt, the sharp sounds sending shooting pains through his bruised head.

Trying to ignore his madly throbbing head, Phil dragged himself to his feet and looked around the destruction that had once been the hotel lounge.  He raised a hand to wipe the blood from his temple and forehead and found himself smirking in relief at what he saw.  Both Clint and Natasha were locked in combat with the HYDRA thugs and, naturally, they were winning.  Clint, in characteristic fashion, also appeared to be aggravating both the HYDRA thugs and Natasha with his smartass comments.

“You call that a punch?” Clint griped as he ducked under a heavy swing from one of the HYDRA thugs.  “HYDRA’s recruitment standards are really slipping.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, before pivoting sharply as one of the HYDRA thugs surged forwards in a rush.  She avoided the thug’s heavy punch and elbowed him in the throat as he moved past, the blow making the thug stumble and choke.  A second thug sent a brutal kick in Natasha’s direction, but she blocked that too, before gracefully twisting her body up and around and locking her thighs around the thug’s neck.  Her red hair, knocked loose from where it had been hidden underneath a hat, tumbled brightly over her shoulder.  At the same time, Clint had been watching her back.  He caught the thug heading for Natasha as she flipped gracefully back to her feet, driving his booted foot painfully into the thug’s stomach before spinning sharply and ducking under a punch from a third.  Slamming his fist into the third thug’s nose, Clint turned fluidly with the movement and yanked the thug’s feet out from underneath him with one of his own.  Rising from the sweep, Clint knocked out the second thug with a vicious kick to the head.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he taunted.

“Clint, shut up,” Natasha growled.

Spotting his gun on the floor and the laptop bag not far from it, Phil moved to grab them both, hoping the laptop was still mostly intact and salvageable.  Phil spotted one of the suited HYDRA men moving as the man opened fire on Clint and Natasha, forcing them both to dive for cover.  A bullet whizzed past Phil and he turned his head as the bullet hit the column behind him to avoid the shards of plaster that spun off from the impact.  Smoothly picking up the gun, Phil shot the suited man in the head, before calmly walking over to retrieve the laptop bag as well.  He glanced around the ruined bar as he did, but it appeared the rest of the HYDRA thugs had either been taken out by the explosion or Clint and Natasha, or they’d used the resulting chaos to flee and there was no sign of Tang and his associates either.

Both Clint and Natasha had spun towards Phil at the sound of the gunshot and Phil watched as they blinked at him in slight surprise.  He arched an eyebrow at them both.  “Perhaps you both could continue your argument elsewhere?” he said.

“See, Nat?” Clint said, a boyish grin spreading across his face.  “I told you he’d reappear like a fucking ninja.”

Movement distracted them all for a moment as one of the thugs groaned and tried to push himself to his feet, but Natasha took him out with two sharp, graceful moves.  “Can we follow Coulson’s suggestion and get out of here?” she asked, glaring a little irritably in Clint’s direction.

Phil immediately started heading for the doors to the bar, knowing they had to get clear of the hotel before the police spotted them.  To that end, Phil ducked into the bathroom just beyond the now destroyed bar.  He heard Natasha and Clint enter quietly behind him and handed Natasha the laptop bag when she held out her hand for it, before holstering his gun.  Thankfully, when Phil looked at his reflection he saw that there was only a little plaster dust on his suit and unless someone looked too hard, the rest of the damage wasn’t obvious.  The blood now drying stickily on the side of his face was more worrying, but there was little he could do about it now aside from wash it off.

The suit jacket was more of a problem; if Phil hadn’t been wearing his holster underneath, it would have been a simple matter of just taking his jacket off, but Phil didn’t particularly want to leave his gun behind.  “Here, let me,” Natasha said and Phil felt her hands gently slipping the jacket off his shoulder.  “I’ve dealt with similar… situations.”

Relinquishing his jacket, Phil turned to catch her wry smile and return it with one of his own, before he turned his attention to Clint.  Clint appeared to be mostly uninjured, but his t-shirt was almost completely covered in dust and tears and his jeans weren’t that much better.  There was no way he’d be able to walk out of the hotel without raising some attention, particularly with the way people’s eyes were always drawn to the archer unless he was actively trying to avoid it.  “That t-shirt’s not going to work,” Phil said after another moment of consideration.

Clint grinned.  “If you just wanted me to take it off, sir, you only had to ask,” he quipped.

Phil rolled his eyes and then tried not to wince at the resulting pain.  From Clint’s suddenly serious expression, he hadn’t managed to hide it.  Clint moved to the sink to grab some paper towel and wet it under the tap.  “How’s the head?” he asked softly.

“Sore,” Phil said, letting some of the pain and exhaustion he felt enter his voice.

There was a faint twist to Clint’s lips as he walked over with the now damp paper towel.  “In non-Coulson speak, that means it’s pretty bad, doesn’t it?” he said.

If Phil could have raised an eyebrow without it hurting his head, he would have.  “So says the man who says ‘I’m fine’ even when he’d bleeding copiously all over one of my suits,” he said sarcastically back.

Clint grinned, but his gaze was firmly fixed on Phil’s temple.  Phil tried really hard not to shiver when those rough, calloused fingers gently tilted his chin so that Clint could see the cut at his hairline a little better.  This close, Phil could see all the colors usually hidden in Clint’s blue eyes and he had to take a long, slow breath to remind himself not to do something stupid, like sway forward a few inches and kiss Clint’s still grinning mouth.  He could feel the butterflies that sprang to life in his stomach the same way they always did when Clint was close enough to touch.

“You can’t be feeling too bad if you’re still using sarcasm, sir,” Clint said, thankfully giving Phil something to focus on that wasn’t his increasingly inappropriate thoughts.

Blinking a little to try and regain his focus, Phil winced a little as Clint began to press a little harder to clean the grit from his cut, before reaching up to undo his shoulder holster.  With Clint standing this close, his movements were a little clumsy and Phil couldn’t help the way his knuckles kept brushing up against the warm cotton of Clint’s chest and the firm muscle beneath it.  “You were really keen on the idea of someone stripping, weren’t you, sir?” Clint said, his expression somewhere between a smirk and a leer, before his eyes flicked back up to Phil’s temple.

Phil huffed out a sigh.  “I’m only taking off my waistcoat, Barton,” he said.  “Try not to get too excited.”

“Okay, I’ll admit it,” Clint said, finally stepping back.  “I’m confused.  Why are you taking off your waistcoat?”

Phil glanced at his reflection in the mirror and noticed that all the blood had been wiped from his face and the cut didn’t look nearly so visible as it had before.  He smiled his thanks at Clint, who was still watching him curiously.  Phil held out his holster and Clint reached out to take it, still watching as Phil began to unbutton his waistcoat.  Phil tried to ignore the feeling of being the sole focus of those sharp eyes; it wasn’t easy, but he’d had lots of practice.  “You need something to cover that t-shirt,” Phil explained.

Clint glanced down and winced a little.  “Can’t we just brush some of the dust off?” he said.

Natasha snorted, walking up to them with the laptop bag in one hand and Phil’s jacket hung neatly over one arm.  Phil blinked a little at how clean it looked.  “The waistcoat should work,” she agreed.  “Although he may have to leave a button or two undone if he doesn’t want to tear a seam.”

“As long as it covers the dust until we can get out of here, I don’t care,” Phil replied, handing Clint his waistcoat and taking the shoulder holster back.

He and Clint finished dressing quickly in silence, before Natasha did something to Clint’s hair and grabbed Clint’s sunglasses from his pocket, before sliding them on.  Cocking her head to the side, she shrugged.  “It’s not much of a fashion statement, but it will do,” she said.

Clint pouted.  “Come on, Tash, admit it.  I _always_ look good.”

“I can still hurt you,” Natasha replied.

Trying not to roll his eyes at the familiar exchange because it still hurt, Phil led the way out of the bathroom.  Luck was on their side as they hit the lobby; the police had just arrived and the resulting noise and chaos covered them slipping into the lobby crowds and then onto the street.  Immediately turning right, Phil started walking purposefully down the street, ignoring the tourists gawking at the hotel and the noisy chatter all around them.  He knew from past visits to the city that the Star Ferry Pier was nearby and hopefully the large amount of people that would be there at this time in the afternoon would help hide them from anyone who had noticed them slip away.

“You know where you’re heading, sir?” Clint said in a low voice as he fell into step beside Phil, one of his arms curled protectively around Natasha.

“At this point, mostly just away from the hotel,” Phil said, spotting a patch of sidewalk that was out of the flow of the crowd and moving towards it.  “I need to call this in,” he said with a sigh when Natasha and Clint joined him.  “There’s a lot more going on here than our intel initially suggested.”

“Yeah, about that,” Clint said, frowning slightly in confusion.  “Why _did_ HYDRA turn up?”

“More importantly,” Natasha said.  “Who set the explosives?”

“My guess would be that HYDRA turned up because Tang and his syndicate have been embezzling money from them.  It’s why I stole the laptop,” Phil said.  “Although the explosion is harder to explain.”

Natasha muttered a curse.  “If Tang was embezzling money, the man he was meeting today was probably helping him,” she said.

“He would need someone to launder his money,” Phil agreed, following her thought.  The he blinked.  “You think the money launderer set the explosives.”

Natasha shrugged.  “It would be a way for him to keep all the money he was laundering,” she said.

“Great,” Clint muttered, his eyes moving over the area and the crowd around them, before they glanced back at Phil.  “Can we head back to the safe house now?  I’m beginning to really want my bow.”

Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead gave Clint what he hoped was a reassuring smile.  “Of course,” he said dryly.  “I was just attempting to take a less direct route to the car in case someone tried to follow us.”

“You’ve been here before then?” Clint said, looking intrigued.

“Many times,” Phil said, his smile growing.  “It’s one of my favorite cities in the world.”

“Really?” Clint said, his eyes lighting up with excitement.  “I’ve always wanted to see Hong Kong… I mean, properly.  Not on a mission.”

“I’ll have to show you around sometime,” Phil offered before he realized how his words sounded and had to fight the embarrassment of assuming Clint would want to see the city with him.

Clint smile just softened into something bashful as he ducked his head.  “I’d really like that,” he said softly.

Phil ignored the way Natasha was rolling her eyes next to Clint.  As if sensing that he was finally paying attention to her, she glared at him, her expression clearly saying:  _tell him_.  Phil continued to ignore her and pulled out his phone, dialing a familiar number.  The phone buzzed twice in his ear before it connected.

“Why is it, Boss, that it’s somehow always you and Hawkeye that get caught in exploding buildings?” Jasper’s voice greeted.

“Your concern is touching,” Phil said dryly.  “Really.”

There was a pause and Phil could almost see Jasper rolling his eyes.  “Sure, get grumpy with me, Boss,” he grumbled.  “I’ve only spent the last twenty minutes trying to clean up all traces of you so the Hong Kong police can’t find you while Maria breathes down my neck and let me tell you, she is  _not_  happy.”

Phil blinked because he was pretty sure that Maria didn’t know the full situation in Hong Kong yet, because Phil hadn’t even briefed Jasper.  That probably meant something else had gone wrong and wasn’t that good news?

“What happened?” he asked.

“You mean aside from HYDRA showing up in Hong Kong and the syndicate trying to do another deal with someone else?” Jasper said.  “Do you need  _more_  things to go wrong, Coulson?”

“Actually, most of that is fairly easy to explain,” Phil said.  “Tang and the syndicate weren’t making a second deal, they were just trying to launder the money they’d already embezzled from HYDRA.  HYDRA only turned up because they were looking for their missing money.”

Jasper was silent for a moment.  “Do you have any proof?” he asked.

“I have Tang’s laptop,” Phil said.  “Hopefully the explosion didn’t break it more than one of the techs can fix.”

“Great, I’ll tell Maria,” Jasper said, before pausing again.  “There’s something else.”

“Bad news?” Phil asked, wondering what else had gone wrong.

“Everything about today is bad news,” Jasper said.

Phil sighed, because that was true enough.  “Jasper, I haven’t had enough decent coffee today,” he said. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“HYDRA turned up at the safe house about five minutes ago, led by a guy in a rather dusty suit,” Jasper said.  “I’m guessing they know you’re SHIELD, so you can’t head back there.”

Muttering a curse, Phil sighed again.  “Did you…?” he began.

“I already stripped most of your stuff out of it,” Jasper interrupted.  “Tell Hawkeye I am staring right at his bow. One of the junior agents is guarding it with his life.”

Phil smiled at little at that.  “I’ll tell him,” he replied.  “Do we have an update on extraction options?”

“You’re calling the mission?” Jasper said, although it was less of a question and more of an attempt at conformation.

“I think we have what we need,” Phil said.

“Well, in that case, I have a yacht waiting for us at the Marina Cove yacht club in Sai Kung to take us to Vietnam,” Jasper said.  “We can be underway in an hour.”

“Good,” Phil replied.  “We’ll meet you there.”

*~*

**Marina Cove yacht club, Kowloon, 2008**

The boat waiting for them at the yacht club was large and sleek and Clint couldn’t help but feel more than a little impressed as he followed Phil and Natasha down the dock.  The motorized yacht had what looked like a two-level cabin as well as a large aft deck, which was currently swarming with the rest of the SHIELD team stowing gear as they prepared to leave.  Clint gave a low whistle, because seriously it looked like the kind of yacht that would belong to a billionaire playboy like Tony Stark rather than SHIELD.

“ _This_  is how we’re getting to Vietnam?” he said.

Phil glanced back at him, a teasing sort of humor in his eyes.  “If you don’t like it, Hawkeye, you’re welcome to swim,” he replied.

Clint made a face at Phil in reply, but naturally Phil had already turned back to greet Jasper and issue what sounded like several orders and a demand for a status update, before he handed over the stolen laptop to one of the junior agents.  “It wasn’t a complaint,” Clint muttered.  “The yacht is just really…”

“Nice,” Natasha finished for him, dropping back to wrap her arm around Clint’s waist.  “The word you’re looking for is nice, Clint.  Unless you wanted to spend more than twelve hours on some sort of trawler that stinks like fish?”

Clint felt a smile curve his lips because, no.  “This is the kind of yacht where the taps bathroom is covered in gold and shit, isn’t it?” he said as he followed Natasha up onto the deck.

“Why don’t you go and find out?” she said with a smirk.

Rolling his eyes at her, Clint headed over to where Phil and Jasper were standing in the middle of the aft deck, keeping an eye on the boat crew.  The rest of the junior agents had disappeared inside, but Clint knew he wouldn’t be able to convince Phil to join them until the older agent was satisfied everything was running smoothly and he’d been updated on all the mission details he’d missed, despite what Clint was guessing was probably a pretty nasty headache from his earlier blow to the head.  The warm afternoon sunlight was bright enough that Clint almost offered Phil his sunglasses, but he figured that would probably only encourage him and Clint was better off just waiting until he could herd Phil inside at his earliest opportunity.

Pausing beside the two agents, Clint waited for Phil and Jasper to finish their conversation, content to breathe in the slightly salty air for the moment.  He stared out over the marina and the dark green hills that surrounded it, listening to the sound of the soft lapping of the water against the yacht’s hull.

“The yacht’s pretty nice, huh?” Jasper said, turning to grin at Clint after another minute or so.

Clint smirked at him.  “Is this one of the perks of having level six clearance?  Or did you steal this from a drug dealer before we got here?” he quipped.

“Funny,” Jasper shot back sardonically.

“Believe it or not, Barton, the yacht belongs to SHIELD,” Phil said, a trace of warm amusement in his voice.  “The crew are all agents.”

“Really?” Clint said, turning to him.  “Then how come I haven’t been on it before now?”

Phil shrugged, but Clint could see the smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.  “We never needed it,” he said.

Clint rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses and turned back to Jasper.  “So, who’s got my gear?” he asked because he was itching to have his bow back now that the mission was over and he didn’t exactly trust the junior agents to look after his baby properly.

“Relax, Hawkeye,” Jasper drawled, his expression telling Clint the other agent knew what he’d really been asking.  “Reid and Morelli already put your bow with the rest of your gear.”

“And where’s that?” Clint said.

“Upstairs bedroom, first door on your right,” Jasper said.  “You get to share with Coulson.”

Clint narrowed his eyes a little, his instincts telling him there was something beneath Jasper’s expression, but he couldn’t figure out what.  He suspected Natasha might have been talking to him; she’d threatened to.  “Right, well, I’m going to head in then,” he said before Jasper could say anything else.

“Good,” Jasper called after him, “’cause you need to shower before you get plaster dust all over the nice pretty yacht!”

Clint ducked inside the cabin and slipped off his sunglasses, blinking a little at what he found because it was far more lavish than he had expected.  The cabin was clearly set up as a communal area with couches along the windows and what looked like a wet bar and a wall-mounted flat screen TV beside a small kitchen.  The junior agents had already commandeered it and Clint waved his hand at the greetings and comments as he walked through.  He headed upstairs to the room Jasper had mentioned, relieved to see his gear carefully stacked in the corner.  Clint checked over his bow, more out of habit than an actual need, before deciding that a shower would actually be pretty good.

Halfway through his shower in the small, but richly decorated bathroom just off the bedroom, Clint heard someone walk in.  Trying not to feel self-conscious as he stuck his head around the shower curtain, Clint found Natasha standing just inside the bathroom with a very determined look on her face.  “Tash, do you mind?” he grumbled.  “I’m trying to take a shower.”

Natasha rolled her eyes.  “Don’t pretend modesty is one of your virtues,” she said.

Clint huffed, but didn’t disagree.  He waited for a moment, but all Natasha continued to do was glare at him.  “Are you going to tell me why you’re interrupting me shower?” he asked.

Regally, Natasha arched her eyebrow at him.  “Are _you_ going to tell Coulson how you feel about him?” she countered.  “Or am I going to have to look you both in this room until we get to Vietnam?”

“Tash…” Clint began, but she cut him off.

“Don’t think I won’t do it,” she said, jabbing a finger towards Clint.

Clint took a deep breath.  Then, letting it out slowly, he looked at the woman who was his best friend and partner.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Okay.  I’m going to do this.”

Natasha nodded once in approval, before her expression softened and she flashed him what he could only describe as an impish smile.  “I’d wish you luck,” she said, “but I’m pretty sure you don’t need it.  You just need to take off your shirt.”  She paused, tilting her head to the side as her eyes danced with laughter.  “Or you could just forget to wear a towel,” she added.

Clint shook his head.  “If I’m going to do this,” he said.  “I’m going to do it right.  In pants.”

Natasha opened her mouth to reply, but she was interrupted by the sound of someone opening the bedroom door.  “That’s my cue to leave,” she said, slipping out with one last challenging implacable over her shoulder at Clint.

Rolling his eyes, Clint ducked back into the shower properly, rinsing the remainder of soap off his skin.  Over the sound of the water, he could hear Natasha having a soft conversation with Phil in the bedroom, but he couldn’t hear what was being said.  Part of Clint thought it might be for the best, because he wouldn’t put it past Natasha to be interfering again.  For a moment, Clint was tempted to put off having a conversation with Phil until the morning, but Natasha was right; his pining was getting ridiculous and if he didn’t say what he wanted to soon, he might lose his nerve and then Natasha would really kick his ass.

*~*

Phil sighed and gently pressed his fingers to his temple.  His headache wasn’t being helped by the mission details still running through his mind, although it was a relief to be in the dimmer light of the cabin rather than outside.  After Jasper’s report, he’d shoved Phil upstairs pretty quickly on the pretext of either changing or taking a nap, but for once Phil didn’t protest.  He’d barely had a chance to glimpse the lounge area below as Jasper had all but pushed him up the stairs.  Phil wasn’t quite sure what was going on with the other agent, but he wanted a few painkillers before he attempted to decipher it.

Opening the door to the bedroom Jasper had said was his and Clint’s, Phil found Natasha on her way out and tried to ignore her pointed glance and teasing smirk as he took in the fact that the bedroom only came with one bed.  It wouldn’t be the first time that Phil had shared a double bed with Clint, but he wasn’t sure he could be quite as professional as he needed to be this time.  There was a small bathroom off to the side of the room and Phil was trying  _really_  hard to ignore the fact that he could hear the running water of the shower and that meant Clint was in there naked.  And wet.

He wasn’t thinking about that, because that _definitely_ wouldn’t help his professionalism.

Huffing at himself, Phil slipped off his jacket and began to undo his tie.  He wouldn’t mind a shower himself –  _alone_ , no matter what his brain was thinking – to get rid of the feeling of grit on his skin and then having a really long nap.  They weren’t due to arrive at the dock in Vietnam until tomorrow afternoon and Phil was hoping to at least use some of the time to sleep and start typing up his mission report, because he had a feeling Fury was going to want a personal debrief about this mess.  He was just reaching up to unbutton his shirt when he heard the bathroom door open behind him.  He could feel the cloud of steam that had obviously followed Clint out when he turned and there was a part of Phil’s mind that was very relieved to note that Clint had come out wearing jeans and a t-shirt, because right now Phil probably wouldn’t survive the sight of the archer in just a towel.

Clint smiled at him in greeting, before Phil heard the sound of the lock clicking on behind him.  He turned around at stared at the door for a long moment because he was pretty sure Natasha had just _locked him in a bedroom with Clint_.  Damn it.

His head was too sore to deal with this.

“Did someone just lock us in?” Clint asked, peering out from underneath the towel he’d been using to dry his hair to glance between Phil and the door.

“Yes,” Phil said with a sigh, giving in to his feelings of exhaustion, frustration and pain and running a hand over his face.  “I think it was Natasha.”

“Uh,” Clint said, suddenly sounding a little nervous.  “That might be my fault.”

Phil dropped his hand and looked at Clint.  “Your fault?” he said, not sure he was following.

Clint threw his towel over the back of a chair.  “Can we talk?” he said.

“Of course,” Phil replied automatically.

He watched as Clint walked across the room and sat down on the bed, shifting so that he was leaning against the headboard with his knees bent.  Phil followed him, sitting on the edge of the bed so he could turn to face Clint.  “Did you know you’re the first person to ever really give me a chance, Phil?” Clint said after a moment.

“I think Fury might object to that statement,” Phil said dryly.  “He was the one that officially recruited you, not me.”

Clint looked amused for a moment.  “Yeah, but you’re my handler,” he said.  “Before you, no one really _listened_ to me.”

“Of course I listened,” Phil said.  “Clint, you have a brilliant tactical mind and even before I knew that, you were still a sniper,” Phil said.  “No one knows your skills better than you do.  Why wouldn’t I listen to your perspective on a mission?”

For a moment, Clint looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, before he huffed out what could have been a strangled laugh.  “I don’t just mean sightlines and preferences on sniper’s perches, Phil,” he said, his eyes flicking away as he fidgeted, before Clint flicked his gaze back to Phil’s.  “You listen to me,” he said.  “You see _me_.”

“Always,” Phil said without thinking about it, because shit, how could he not?

Clint was loyal and brave and _amazing._ He was dedicated and driven and so breathtakingly incredible with a bow in his hand.  He was always putting others before himself and despite the painful lessons and betrayals in his past, he still gave so much without asking for anything in return.  He was beautiful and difficult and too much of a smartass sometimes and maybe Phil had been hiding behind excuses, but that was only because he didn’t know how to tell Clint any of that.  Phil had _never_ been good at admitting his feelings out loud, because every time he tried, his tongue got tangled and he said stupid things; and it didn’t matter how many times people said Clint looked at him as much as Phil looked back, because there was still a part of Phil that remembered how it felt to be a nerd in high school and how the boys that he wanted had never once wanted him back.

“I can’t look at you and not see _you_ ,” Phil said, his normal reserve completely stripped away as he all but _begged_ Clint to understand what he meant.

When Clint searched Phil’s face with his sharp gaze, Phil tried not to turn away.  Put him on a mission in front of a beautiful woman and Phil could be charming and witty because he could play that role well.  But put him in front of someone he liked – in front of _Clint_ – and he was distracted by blue eyes and insanely muscled arms and the only words he could think of were not coherent in the slightest.  “Shit, I’m not good at this,” he muttered.

“Phil?” Clint said, his voice quiet and uncertain in a way Phil never wanted to hear again.

He shut his eyes and cursed.  If he could stare down HYDRA agents and mobsters without flinching, he could damn well tell Clint how he felt.  Opening his eyes, Phil forced himself to look Clint in the eye and had to suck in a sharp breath at what he saw.  Phil had known that Clint was attracted to him at least a little and he knew they were friends, but the _depth_ of the feelings reflected in Clint’s gaze made his heart pound.  Contrary to what most people thought, Phil had _never_ been good with words when it came to his feelings and sitting there with everything he felt in his eyes, Clint was too much of a temptation to resist.  So Phil stopped trying to.

Reaching out, Phil covered Clint’s still fidgeting hand where it was sitting on his knee.  Then slowly, Phil slid his hand up Clint’s arm, feeling the firm muscles underneath his warm skin as Phil curled his hand around Clint’s forearm.  Swallowing, Phil found himself trapped by the growing _hope_ in Clint’s eyes.  Moving slowly enough that Clint could pull away if he didn’t want this, Phil leaned forwards and pressed his lips to Clint’s.  It was barely more than a declaration of intent, but Phil still felt the heat of Clint’s lips against his and it took everything he had not to melt against Clint’s hard body and kiss him again.  The words were hard and Phil was terrified, but Clint _deserved_ to hear them.

“Phil…” Clint asked softly as Phil pulled away.

“I love you,” Phil confessed, his voice hoarse and almost unrecognizable.  “I’m sorry… I’m not good at saying the words, Clint, but I do.  I love you.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Clint cursed in a rough voice that had Phil’s knees going weak.

Phil barely registered that Clint’s voice was shaking before the archer surged forwards and caught Phil’s face between his calloused palms before his lips crashed back down on Phil’s.  The kiss was hard and ruthless and Phil could feel his heart hammering against his ribs as he gave in to it.  His hands slid over Clint’s sides to his back, pulling him in closer as Clint deepened the kiss, hunger flaring between them, hot and bright.  Phil arched towards him on a moan, his fingers tangling helplessly in the soft cotton of Clint’s t-shirt.  Finally, Clint pulled away with his own ragged groan and the sound sent sparks down Phil’s spine.  They were both breathing hard and Phil could feel Clint’s heart was beating as frantically as his.

“Shit, Phil,” Clint muttered, pressing his forehead gently to Phil’s for a moment as he caught his breath.  “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that, but at the same time, been terrified that it was something I could never have?”

“ _Why?_ ” Phil whispered roughly before he could stop himself.  “Why would you want _me_?”

Clint’s lips twisted in what was maybe supposed to be a smile as he slid his fingers across Phil’s cheek.  “Why would I want you?” he echoed, sounding a little like he didn’t understand the question and it made Phil’s traitorous heart skip a beat.  “Shit, Phil, why _wouldn’t_ I want you?  You listen to me when I tell you something’s wrong and when I just want to talk.  I _trust_ you.  And because no matter what everyone else sees _now_ when they look at me, I know that the first time _you_ did, you looked past all the bravado and attitude and decided I was worth something.”

Clint’s eyes were dark and intent and showed all the lust and love and nervousness that was thrumming through Phil.  The undeniable knowledge that he was not alone in his feelings made Phil brave.  “So does this mean that if I asked you to get dinner with me, you’d say yes?” he asked.

“You idiot,” Clint said affectionately, a softly adoring smile lighting up his face.  Phil felt something in his chest tense as if it was about to shatter, but Clint pressed a finger to his lips before he could say anything.  “It means _I love you too_.”

Phil’s heart gave a single, loud thump against his rib, before it started racing again.  “Oh,” he said.

Feeling a smile growing across his face, Phil shifted his weight to press closer to Clint because _he was allowed to do that now_.  He felt Clint’s rough chuckle vibrate through him as Clint kissed him again, the sound merging into a rough groan as Phil slid his fingers into Clint’s hair and deepened the kiss.  When Clint pulled away again, Phil made a sound of protest and attempted to follow him, but Clint stopped him with a hand against Phil’s chest.  “Just… for the record,” Clint said.  “ _Yes_ , I will have dinner with you.  I’ll have breakfast with you.  I’ll see cheesy movies with you and go for walks and whatever other shit people do on dates, okay?  I’ll…”

“How about shutting up and kissing me?” Phil said, trying to pull Clint closer again and sounding a little peeved even to his own ears.  “Will you do that?”

“Yes,” Clint said with a rush and the bright flash of a grin.  “ _Hell yes_.”

Phil didn’t resist when Clint pulled him in and kissed him until he felt dizzy.  Clint’s hands tugged at Phil’s shirt and before Phil could gather his thoughts enough to help, his hands had found their way underneath Phil’s shirt.  Phil arched closer as Clint’s hands traced a path down his spine, pouring everything he felt and couldn’t say with words into the kiss.  He slid his hands up Clint’s arms, reveling in finally being able to touch the muscles he’d admired for so long and feeling them flex under his palms.  He wanted more – just closer and harder and _more_ – until all he could feel was Clint surrounding him and under his hands and branded on his skin.

With a rough sound, Clint’s hands tightened on Phil’s back as Phil’s own hands found Clint’s hips and pulled him even closer.  He could feel Clint’s erection through his jeans and shivered as the heady rush of knowledge went through him that the gorgeous man in his arms wanted Phil as much as Phil wanted him.  Clint yanked his hands out from underneath Phil’s shirt, his nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons and stripping Phil with rough, impatient movements.  Just as eager to touch the firm muscles and warm skin like he’d been longing to for years, Phil pulled back to yank Clint’s t-shirt over his head and tossed it somewhere over his shoulder.  He barely had time to take in the wide expanse of naked skin he’d revealed and the way Clint’s hair stood up from _Phil’s fingers in it_ , because _Jesus Christ_ , Clint was _gorgeous_ , before Clint was yanked him up a little clumsily by his belt.

“Up,” Clint muttered, leaning forwards for another kiss.  “Pants.  Off.  _Now_.”

There was a part of Phil that wanted to skim every inch of skin on Clint’s chest and back, tracing the silvery scars that caught the light and slide his tongue over the dips and swells of muscle, but Clint didn’t seem to want to slow down and Phil didn’t really care enough to make him, because there was always next time and _fuck_ , if that wasn’t one of the best parts of this.  This wasn’t a one time thing; it might even be _forever_.

He laughed a little as Clint drew away slightly with a muffled curse as he struggled with Phil’s belt buckle.  He followed Clint’s faintly trembling hands with his own, helping him undo the clasp.  “ _Shit_ ,” Clint growled, pausing long enough to give Phil another rough kiss.  “You make me feel like I’m fifteen all over again.”

Impatiently, Phil clumsily kicked off his pants and underwear, before they repeated the same struggle with Clint’s.  Unable to stop himself, Phil pulled Clint closer with one hand on his ass and their hips lined up and _holy shit_ the friction was incredible.  Then Clint tipped them back so they landed on the bed behind them and that was _even better_.  Phil lost track of time for a while after that, he’d admit it; Clint’s weight was pressing him into the mattress and Clint’s mouth was _right there_.  Phil was helpless to resist, his hips jerking as Clint’s teeth sank into his lower lip.

“ _Phil_ …” Clint keened, arching his neck as Phil buried one hand back in Clint’s hair and he hooked his legs around Clint’s waist.

Clint’s hands never seemed to stop moving, as if he was trying to touch as much of Phil as possible as their hips rolled together and then, somehow, Clint managed to get a hand between them and Phil felt himself arch off the mattress on a curse.  Sensations crashed over him like a wave and everything was hot and perfect and Clint’s hands were _everywhere_ , coaxing and teasing and sending lightning arcing up and down Phil’s spine.  He was so _fucking close_ and he couldn’t tell who was groaning louder – him or Clint – and he didn’t fucking care.  He dragged Clint down for a wet, open-mouthed kiss because he needed to kiss him more than breathe, muffling the litany of curses and endearments spilling out of Clint’s mouth.  “ _Fuck_ , you’re gorgeous,” Clint growled as he pulled back, grinding his hips down ruthlessly against Phil’s.

“Jesus, _Clint_ ,” Phil managed before his back was arching and he was coming.

Clint cursed a moment later, his teeth sinking into Phil’s shoulder as he followed, come and sweat warm and sticky between them.  Phil came back to himself in a tangle of limbs with Clint half sprawled across his chest.  A pleasant feeling of exhaustion was sapping the strength from his muscles, Phil’s body slowly trying to remind him how tired he was and Phil decided to blame that for the sleepy and no doubt a ridiculous smile spreading across his face.  As soon as he could get his head to cooperate, he turned towards Clint and found the archer looking back.  Clint’s lips were still swollen from their kisses, but it was the look in his amazing eyes that made Phil’s breath catch.  He was watching Phil with a look of warm happiness and contentment that Phil had never seen on Clint’s face before and Phil had to swallow with the realization that _he’d_ put it there.  He’d thought it was impossible to fall even more in love with Clint Barton, but as he drowned in that look, he knew he’d been wrong.

The sweat was beginning to cool unpleasantly on Phil’s skin, but he didn’t want to move; he liked exactly where he was, with Clint’s solid weight pressing him into the mattress and the archer’s slowing heartbeat comforting against his.  Shifting closer, Clint gave Phil a long, languid kiss and Phil couldn’t stop his arms coming up to pull him closer.  Pulling away again, Clint shifted as if he meant to push himself up, but Phil refused to let him move.  “You’d better not be thinking of going anywhere,” he said.

Clint grinned before he leaned close to steal another kiss.  “I’m just going to the bathroom for a second, I promise,” he said, laughter evident in his tone.  If Phil hadn’t been feeling quite so sated, he probably would have taken more offense at that.

Phil huffed, but exhaustion was starting to get the better of him and he felt his eyes sliding shut.  Cool air hit his skin as Clint got up to pad silently to the bathroom and Phil immediately missed his warmth.  A few moments later, Clint was back, carefully cleaning up the mess they’d made with a warm cloth, before he climbed back onto the bed.  He curled his warm body around Phil’s and Phil gratefully tucked himself in against Clint’s chest, snuggling close, one of Clint’s arms around his waist and their legs tangled together.  For a moment, Phil groped behind him, searching for the blankets and with a soft chuckle Clint helped him fumble with it.  He smiled sleepily as Clint’s hands stroked down his back soothingly and Phil tried to remember a time in his life when he’d felt this content and happy.  He wasn’t sure he could.

“How’s the head?” Clint asked softly after a moment.

“Mmm, I’m pretty sure I can’t feel it anymore,” Phil said.

Clint chuckled and when Phil blinked open his eyes, Clint’s gaze was soft.  Even so, Phil could see the faint concern in his expression.  “I’m okay, Clint,” he said.  “I’m better than okay.  I’m fantastic.”

“Fantastic, huh?” Clint said with a smile, his eyes dancing.

Phil arched an eyebrow.  “Are you fishing for compliments?” he asked.

“If I was, would you give them to me?” Clint said.

His expression turning serious, Phil looked at Clint for a moment.  “You’re amazing,” he said, meaning it and from the way Clint bit his lip endearingly and blushed faintly, he understood that Phil was talking about more than just his skills in bed.  “Incredible,” Phil continued, untangling a hand so he could trail his fingers along Clint’s jaw, before he let his expression turn teasing.  “And _really_ good in bed.”  He pressed forwards to give Clint a kiss.  “Will that do?” he said.

Clint huffed and rolled his eyes while fighting a blush and Phil felt a warm rush of love.  “I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” Clint replied, but Phil kind of ruined the moment by yawning.

Clint chuckled again.  “Go to sleep, Phil,” he said.

Phil settled back down with a sleepy smile.  “Okay,” he muttered, feeling the soft press of a kiss to his temple as he drifted off.

*~*

**Somewhere off the coast of Vietnam, 2008**

Waking slowly, Clint found himself warm, happy and curled around an equally warm and sleepy Phil. He couldn’t help the slow smile that covered his face, because yesterday still felt almost like a dream and Clint knew it would take a while before he stopped feeling giddy every time he realized this was real.  There was a warm buzz of happiness hovering somewhere underneath his sternum and Clint hoped that it never faded.  Shifting slightly, Clint felt more than heard Phil grumble sleepily in protest and press closer.  He’d been delighted to learn that Phil was a cuddler and even though he was pretty sure it would fade with time as they got more comfortable sleeping with each other, Clint was going to enjoy it for as long as he could.

“Are you awake, Phil?” he asked quietly, pressing a kiss to Phil’s shoulder.

He got nothing but a quiet mumble in reply and smiled as he pressed another kiss to Phil’s warm skin. Phil like this was miles away from the calm, unflappable Agent Coulson and Clint found himself grateful that he got to see this side of Phil.  As their friendship had grown, Clint had seen more and more hints of the man behind the professional demeanor – the man he’d ultimately fallen in love with – but nothing compared to the reality of having a soft, sleepy Phil in his arms; not even catching the unflappable Agent Coulson geeking out over Captain America.

Phil was more vulnerable that Clint had expected too; he’d let people inside his defenses before and then they’d rejected him.  Clint couldn’t quite understand how people could see how amazing Phil was and then not want him, but he could definitely relate to it.  Phil was smart and calm and loyal and brave and insightful and damn impressive in a suit.  Clint was still battling his own insecurities over how a man like Phil Coulson could fall in love with an ex-carnie, ex-mercenary like Clint, but knowing he wasn’t alone in the feeling made it somehow easier.

“Will you stop watching me like a creeper?” Phil said without opening his eyes, his voice rough with sleep.

“I’m not being creepy,” Clint protested, except he really was.

Phil rolled over slightly and blinked those amazing blue eyes up at Clint.  There was a sweet smile on his face and Clint found it impossible to resist Phil when he was smiling like that.  Leaning forward, he pulled Phil in for a long, slow kiss.  Phil hummed in approval and Clint felt one of Phil’s hands settle on the side of his neck, his thumb curving along Clint’s jaw, while the other rested right over Clint’s heart.

“Good morning,” Phil said after they finally pulled apart.

“Good morning,” Clint echoed with a smirk.  “Want to go and christen the shower?”

In response, Phil rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling, so Clint was going to assume that meant he could be talked into shower sex.  Of course, the longer Clint looked at Phil lying all rumpled among the equally rumpled sheets, the more he was tempted to not even leave the bed.  Phil was attractive any day of the week, but when he was soft and warm and naked he was fucking gorgeous.

“Clint,” Phil said with an amused smile, poking him gently in the chest.  “You’re staring again.”

“Sorry,” Clint said softly.  “I guess I just need to keep reminding myself that you’re really here.”

Phil’s expression sort of melted at Clint’s admission and Clint found himself being pushed back against the pillows and kissed breathless.  Clint’s hands came up to slide over the warm skin and sleek muscle of Phil’s back as Phil slanted his mouth over Clint’s.  The kiss deepened as Phil pressed even closer and he ended up half sprawled across Clint’s chest with one hand buried in Clint’s hair and the other braced on the bed.  Clint wasn’t entirely sure what it was about what he’d said that had prompted Phil’s reaction, but he was going to enjoy every fucking second.  Unfortunately, before Clint could explore the soft sounds Phil was making as thoroughly as he wanted, they were interrupted by a loud series of thumps on the room’s door.

“This is your friendly wake up call,” Jasper’s voice shouted.  “Just a reminder that we make port in an hour and pants are not optional.”

Clint cursed when Phil stopped kissing him and watched as Phil speared the still closed door with a glare.  “Do you think Fury would miss him if Jasper accidentally fell overboard?” he said.

“Phil,” Clint said, amused, before he attempted to pull Phil down for another kiss.  “You can’t throw Jasper overboard.”

“You say that  _now_ ,” Phil muttered against Clint’s lips.

Humming into the kiss, Clint wondered if he could actually manage to distract Phil from his responsibilities.  It didn’t seem likely, but when Phil pulled away again, Clint was happily surprised when he only moved enough to settle more comfortably against Clint.  “You know, if Jasper starts teasing us too badly, we can just remind him that he and Maria weren’t much better,” he said, because really, Jasper had no grounds to tease them about this.

Phil sighed.  “It’s not the teasing that I mind,” he said.  “It’s the part where it’s really hard to make junior agents follow orders when they’re all sniggering about my sex life.”

Biting back a laugh, Clint tried to look serious as Phil glared down at him.  “I hate to break it to you, Phil, but I’m pretty sure there’s no one on this boat who  _doesn’t_  know what we got up to last night. The walls aren’t that thick.”

Phil sighed again.  “There goes my reputation.”

“Nah,” Clint grinned.  “This only makes your reputation  _more_  badass.”

The eyebrow Phil arched at him somehow managed to convey both Phil’s skepticism and his exasperation with the implication that sleeping with Clint was supposed to boost his reputation.  Clint rolled his eyes.  “I meant now that the junior agents known you’re a badass sex ninja,” he said, before he injected a note of mock outrage into his voice.  “Although, I’ll have you know, I’m considered a major catch by at least half of SHIELD.”

“I’m going to ignore the fact that you just referred to me as a ‘sex ninja’,” Phil said dryly.  Then his expression turned uncertain as his eyes searched Clint’s.  “You do know that it doesn’t matter what SHIELD thinks?  That it doesn’t change anything?”

Clint snorted and smirked up at Phil, hoping he would be able to chase away the uncertainty because he didn’t like that at all.  “You’re the one going on about your reputation, Phil,” he said.

“No, I mean…” Phil frowned.  “People can consider you a catch or they can consider you the complete opposite and it won’t change how I feel.”  He gave Clint a wry smile.  “I told you I wasn’t good at this.”

The smile that curved Clint’s face felt bittersweet.  “It’s okay to be human, you know,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Phil replied just as quietly.  “It’s just been a long time since someone has decided I’m worth my flaws.”

Clint reached up to trace his fingers along Phil’s jaw.  Phil closed his eyes and leaned into the gentle touch and Clint was sort of grateful that Phil couldn’t see his face.  He was reminded of the saying about still waters running deep as he watched the memories lingering in Phil’s expression.  Part of Clint wanted to introduce a few arrows to the kneecaps of the people in Phil’s past, but the rest of him just wanted to hold Phil close and never let go because he knew  _exactly_  how Phil felt.  No one had ever wanted Clint enough to put up with his flaws, either.  Clint still wasn’t convinced he could actually have a long-term relationship without fucking it up somehow, but he’d fight for Phil with everything he had.

“Come on,” Clint said, refusing to acknowledge the prickle in his eyes or the faint hoarseness in his voice.  “I think we should try shower sex before Jasper comes back.”

Phil blinked open his eyes to look down at Clint again, but this time his expression only held warm amusement.  “Is that so?” he said.

“Uh huh,” Clint said with a smirk.

As Phil pushed himself up, Clint let himself openly admire the way the sheet slipped down to reveal more of Phil’s naked chest.  Unabashedly, Clint let his eyes drift down as the sheet did and did nothing to hide the smirk that curled across his mouth.  Phil had a leanly muscled body that showed what a highly-trained agent he was and as good as Phil was to look at – and _fuck_ , was he ever – Clint was pretty sure that Phil and him in the shower needed to happen _now_.  Rolling his eyes at the way Clint was ogling him, Phil nevertheless offered a hand and tugged Clint to his feet.  He watched as Phil’s eyes did their own long, slow perusal of Clint, before Phil started walking backwards, pulling Clint with him towards the small bathroom.  “I think we can do that,” he agreed.

*~*

**SHIELD Headquarters, New York, 2008**

Considering it was barely eight o’clock in the morning, Phil was a little surprised when he walked into his office and found Nick Fury sitting behind his desk, sipping coffee with his boots up.  He didn’t let any of his surprise show on his face, but he did narrow his eyes at Nick, before turning away to hang up his coat and put down his briefcase.  “Is there something I can help you with, sir?” he asked mildly when he turned back.

Nick smirked at him and took a drink of coffee.  “How was Hong Kong, Phil?” he asked.  “I heard the mission was rather… eventful.”

“It had its moments,” Phil said blandly.

When Nick just gave him a reproachful look, Phil blew out a sigh and sank down into the chair opposite him.  “You know, you could have at least brought me coffee if you were going to interrogate me this morning,” he grumbled, dropping his usually deadpan demeanor to glare at his old friend.

With a smug grin and because Nick was an asshole, he pulled out a large cup out from underneath the desk and placed it down in front of Phil.  Then he pulled out a box from Phil’s favorite bakery.  “Phil, I brought you fucking _donuts_ ,” he said.

Phil looked down at the coffee and donuts and then up at Nick.  “What do you need me to do?” he asked flatly.

“I want you to eat a damn donut,” Nick said.  “Shit, Cheese, this was supposed to be a ‘congratulations, you finally got laid by the guy you’re in love with’ moment.”

Huffing, Phil slumped a little further down in the chair and reached for the coffee.  He should have been dancing on air and all the other ridiculous clichés, even if he had to force himself to leave a naked Clint in his bed and not call in sick to work.  It wasn’t even Jasper’s teasing getting him down because it hadn’t been that bad, despite the fact that it hadn’t stopped _the whole trip back_.  He’d ignored most of it by simply taking a seat with Clint at the back of the plane home.  It was just that now that they were back at SHIELD there was a little voice in the back of Phil’s head warning him that Clint might finally realize how much of an old, paranoid workaholic Phil was and change his mind.

“Stop it,” Nick said, his expression pointed when Phil glanced at him.  “Whatever doubts are running through your head, Phil, just stop.”

Phil let out a breath.  “Can you do me a favour, Nick?” he asked.  “Clint’s one of the best things that has ever happened to me.  Please help me not fuck this up.”

Nick rolled his eye.  “Barton’s been in love with you for _years_ ,” he said.  “I’m pretty sure nothing will drive him away at this point.”

“I hope you’re right,” Phil said.

“Let me put it this way,” Nick said with a grin.  “Between me, Sitwell, Maria and Romanoff, they’ll always be _someone_ who can lock you and Barton in a room together again if you need it.”

“So you heard about that?” Phil said with a sigh, reaching for the donut box.

“Phil,” Nick said reprovingly.  “I’m the Director of a covert intelligence agency.”

Phil sent him an unimpressed look back.  “You mean Jasper told you,” he said flatly.

Nick grinned.  “He sent a memo.”

Deciding to ignore that as Nick chuckled, Phil opened the bakery box and came face-to-icing with an example of Nick’s warped sense of humour.  There was a single, chocolate-covered donut in the box and it was shaped like a giant penis with the words ‘bite me’ iced down the front.  “You,” Phil said, looking up, “are an _asshole_.”

Nick burst out laughing so hard he almost folded himself in half.  Phil felt his own mouth twitch in a smile as Nick attempted to pull himself together again, but he didn’t want to show it, because that would only encourage him.  “You don’t like your donut, Phil?” Nick said, laughter still thick in his voice.

It had been an old tradition of Nick’s from back in the Rangers; every time they’d had a bit of leave near Phil’s birthday, Nick had bought him a dick-shaped donut and had usually accompanied it with a dirty joke or five.  The tradition wasn’t one Phil had been sorry to see go when he’d joined SHIELD.  At least Nick hadn’t given it to him when Jasper was around.

“Oh, before I forget, you need to sign these and file them with HR,” Nick said.

Expecting transfer forms, Phil took the folder from him and opened it, before he blinked in surprise.  “You’re not reassigning Clint,” he said.

“No,” Nick replied with a smirk.  “I’m promoting him.  Natasha, too.  Her form’s underneath.  I think they’ve earned it, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Phil said immediately.  “They’re both excellent agents.”

There was absolutely no doubting that both Clint and Natasha deserved the promotions and the increase in clearance level would give them more opportunities to use all of their skills.  It was also fucking sneaky, because the promotion put Clint on more of an equal footing with Phil professionally and removed the need for Clint to have a handler.  It would also allow Phil to still work with him, despite their relationship.

“I thought it was about time Barton had the freedom to choose his own missions,” Nick said.  “And don’t give me that look, Phil.  You can request him for your mission team just like everybody else.  Whether or not Barton accepts is entirely up to him.”

Phil opened his mouth to reply, before he let out a breath and laughed instead.  “Sneaky bastard,” he muttered, before his smile turned grateful.  “Thank you.”

Nick shrugged, because genuine thanks always made him awkward.  “I’ve got to look after two of my best agents, don’t I?” he said.  “Who else am I going to get to help me kick ass?”

*~*

Clint was feeling good.

It was hard not to after Phil had woken him up that morning for morning sex, even if it was at an unholy hour and Clint was pretty sure the feeling showed all over his face.  He was also pretty sure he didn’t care.  Phil had taken him home to his apartment and all but told him it was okay to move in if he wanted and at this point, not even HYDRA would be able to dim his mood.  The only thing that would make his morning even better would be to see Phil and because Clint was such an awesome fucking boyfriend, he was going to bring Phil coffee at the same time.

“I see you managed to find your pants,” Natasha’s voice said dryly from near his elbow when Clint was about halfway to the SHIELD cafeteria.

“Ha ha,” he said, turning to glare at her as she fell into step beside him.  “That joke stopped being funny after about the twentieth time you texted it to me.”

Natasha just grinned.  Rolling his eyes at her, Clint resigned himself to the fact that Natasha would continue teasing him about his relationship with Phil for the rest of his life.  Although, hey, if he got to spend the rest of his life with Phil, he’d learn to live with it.  They’d done a lot of talking – in between having several more rounds of the best sex of Clint’s life – and Clint was pretty sure that Phil knew this was it for him.  Clint was in this for as long as he could get, preferably forever.  Clint knew Phil wanted that too, but they both had a few demons to slay.  It would take time, but they’d be doing it _together_ and Clint would put up with a hell of a lot more than some gentle mockery from his best friend for a chance at that.

When they got closer to the cafeteria, Clint could hear a few loud voices and realized that someone was holding caught inside, seemingly in the middle of a hilarious story judging by the laughter.  When Clint recognized Jasper’s voice as the one telling the story, however, he started to change his mind about going inside.  Maybe he could just get Phil a coffee from that café down the street he liked.

“…and then Agents Barton and Coulson mysterious disappeared for the entire time it took us to sail to Vietnam,” Jasper’s voice said and Clint didn’t need to see him to know there was a shit-eating grin on Jasper’s face.

Changing his mind about letting Jasper get away with that, Clint snuck into the cafeteria.  Jasper was holding court over a group of junior agents, Agents Reid and Morelli grinning beside him.  Clint leaned against the wall near them and folded his arms over his chest, before clearing his throat.  His smirk turned a little evil as six pairs of guilty-looking eyes and three sets of amused ones turned towards him.  “You make it sound like a conspiracy, Agent Sitwell,” he said.

Jasper grinned.  “Well, why don’t you enlighten us all as to what you were _really_ doing then, Agent Barton?” he said, his eyes dancing with teasing laughter.

“We were napping,” Clint said as solemnly as he could muster.

One of the junior agents snorted.  “Agent Coulson doesn’t _nap_ ,” she muttered.  “Agent Coulson doesn’t have the weakness of needing sleep.”

Clint bit back a laugh and shared an amused glance with Jasper.  “Well,” Clint drawled, stretching out the word, “I can’t be completely certain, but I think I did catch Coulson actually closing his eyes while in a horizontal position…”

The junior agent blushed as Jasper sent Clint a knowing look.  “Is _that_ what you’re calling it now?” he said.

“Isn’t that what you and Deputy Director Hill call it?” Natasha asked innocently, suddenly appearing behind Jasper and making most of the junior agents jump.

Clint grinned, because he had the best BFF _ever_.

Jasper frowned, flicking his eyes between Clint and Natasha.  Clint smirked at him, because Jasper had to know that if he was going to tease Clint about Phil, then Clint would give it right back.  Natasha, Clint guessed, would delight in mocking them both.  Thankfully, his and Jasper’s stare down was interrupted by the arrival of both the people they were talking about.  Phil and Maria were deep in what looked like a very serious conversation, but even so Phil glanced up long enough to find Clint and give him a soft smile.  Clint smiled back, because while he’d rather walk over there and yank Phil in for a kiss by his tie, he knew how to act like a professional.  Maria said something to Phil with a smirk and Phil looked away from Clint to glare at her, before turning and heading straight for the coffee.  Clint smirked at that, because never let it be said that Agent Coulson liked an empty coffee cup when he had to deal with epic amounts of shit.

“You can’t tell me that man likes to _nap_ ,” the junior agent from before said.

Clint let a cocky grin blossom across his face.  “Maybe he doesn’t, but I _can_ tell you something that he _does_ do is…” he quipped.

“Barton!”

Clint glanced over at Phil’s interruption to see the other agent walking towards him with a now full cup of coffee.  “Come with me,” Phil said.

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, pushing himself away from the wall and waving goodbye to the junior agents as he fell into step beside Phil.  “Can I ask _why_ exactly I’m coming with you?”

“You’re coming because I asked nicely,” Phil said.  The sarcasm dripping from the words was almost palpable.

Clint grinned.  “I can think of _so many_ things to say to that,” he said.

Phil sent him a side-long glance, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  “Please don’t,” he replied.

When they got to Phil’s office, Phil let him enter first and Clint turned around and waited until Phil had shut the door behind them.  Reaching out, he grabbed Phil’s tie like he’d wanted to in the cafeteria and pulling him in for a kiss, marveling a little at the fact that this was one of the things he could do now.  He hummed a little in pleasure as Phil obligingly deepened the kiss, before pulling back with a sigh.

“So, did you actually need me for something, or was that just an excuse so we could make out in your office?” he asked.

Phil rolled his eyes a little, but he still smiled when Clint smoothed his tie back into place.  “I have some forms for you to sign,” he said, moving around to take a seat behind his desk.

Clint pouted playfully, but moved to sit down opposite Phil without complaint.  “Did I forget to sign a requisitions form or something?” he said.

“Nothing that dire,” Phil replied.  “Fury just has some paperwork he needs you to sign before it gets processed.”

Raising his eyebrows, Clint flipped open the file Phil handed him and had to stare at it for a long moment before the words started making sense.  He read it over twice just to make sure it said what he thought it did, before he raised his eyes to look at Phil.  “I’m being promoted,” he said.

Looking up from his own file, Phil nodded, his eyes holding a trace of amusement at Clint’s bewilderment.  “You are,” he agreed.  “As is Natasha.  Fury thought it was about time.”

Clint was silent for another long moment as he let that sink in.  He knew he was a good sniper and a good enough agent that he could hold his own on a SHIELD mission team, but he’d never considered the possibility that one day Fury would consider him a good enough agent that he wouldn’t need a handler.  “This promotion will officially make me a senior agent,” he said.

Like Jasper.  Like _Phil_.

Well, maybe not like Phil, but only because Phil Coulson wasn’t like another other SHIELD agent _ever_.

“Yes,” Phil replied, his eyes softening.  “You deserve it, Clint.”

“It also means you won’t be my handler anymore,” Clint added and he was really going to miss that.  Having Phil’s voice in his ear had been something to look forward to and meant being on the kind of mission where everything was checked twice and his opinions were listened to, rather than a mission where Clint would have to put up with assholes.  Clint knew that he got to be with Phil _outside_ of missions now – to wake up next to him and go to sleep with him and everything in between – but Clint selfishly didn’t want to lose the mission part too.

“Guess this means no more missions with me, huh?” he said.

Phil sent him a look that told Clint he knew exactly what Clint was thinking.  “You have the choice to be on any future mission team of mind that I request you on,” he said.  “I just wasn’t…”

“You know the answer’s yes, don’t you?” Clint interrupted.

“Are you sure?” Phil said.  “You won’t have to…”

Clint snorted.  “Won’t have to what?” he said.  “Be part of a team that handles some on SHIELD’s most challenging missions?  Have a team leader who listens to my opinions?  Yeah, no.  You’re stuck with me.  Nat will tell you exactly the same thing.”

The soft smile on Phil’s face at Clint’s words was all Phil and none of Agent Coulson.  “Well, I’d be stupid to turn down the World’s Greatest Marksman, wouldn’t I?” he said.

“Damn straight,” Clint agreed with a grin.

Phil’s lips twisted as he regained a little of his Agent Coulson bearing.  “Clint, sign your paperwork,” he said.  “You’re due in the range in ten minutes.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Clint muttered sarcastically as he rolled his eyes and signed the form with a flourish, before handing it back.

“Oh, and one other thing,” Phil said as Clint got up and headed towards the door.  “You might want to ease up on terrifying the junior agents.  As a senior agent, you actually have to fill out your own paperwork.’’

Clint grinned at Phil’s teasing smile.  “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said, “but I make no promises.”

Phil’s laughter followed him out.

*~*

**Three months later, Phil’s apartment, New York**

Waking up far more slowly than usual, Phil stretched out lazily across his bed.  He felt warm and comfortable and for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel the immediate urge to seek out a large cup of coffee to keep him conscious.  What he _had_ wanted to find was Clint still lying in bed next to him so that Phil could maybe convince him that they could just spent the entire day in bed, but judging by the sounds and delicious smells coming from the kitchen, Phil was okay with the change of plans.  The next two weeks were theirs and theirs alone to do _whatever_ they wanted, away from SHIELD and saving the world and Phil was pretty sure he could convince Clint to stay in bed with him for at least a few days of that.

Maybe even a week.

The last three months had been more than a little dreamlike for Phil in a lot of ways.  It hadn’t been easy, because despite the fact that he’d known Clint for six years, living with him was different.  They both had their quirks and issues and annoying habits, but having Clint in his apartment and being able to come home to such an amazing man would _always_ be worth it.  Over the last month, Clint had moved most of his stuff into Phil’s apartment and last night he’d made it official by giving Clint his own key.  He knew the lock on the front door had yet to actually keep Clint out, but Phil never wanted Clint to feel that he wasn’t wanted – that Phil didn’t still find it amazing that Clint wanted to be here.

The scent of French toast made Phil’s stomach rumble and he sighed as he realized he should probably drag himself out of bed now.  He’d been delighted to discover that while Clint was not a gourmet cook, he knew how to several of his favourite foods _very_ well and French toast was definitely one of those.  Climbing out of bed, he pulled on a pair of discarded pajama pants and headed to the kitchen.  He had to pause in the doorway and smile at the sight that greeted him when he did, because the sight of Clint in boxers and a tank top with his hair sticking up at odd angles and humming along to the radio while he cooked would _never_ get old.

Phil’s gaze followed Clint in clear appreciation as Clint wiggled his ass a little to the song on the radio until Phil’s stomach growled again and reminded him he was starving.  He walked up behind Clint on soft feet, knowing that Clint knew he was there, because the hip-wiggling had definitely increased the longer Phil had watched, and picked up Clint’s coffee cup just before the archer moved to grab it.  Phil grinned at Clint’s protest, before sliding an arm around Clint’s waist and pulling him back against his chest.  Clint was warm and willing and Phil could feel the distracted play of hard muscles underneath his skin as Clint sank back against him and turned his head for a kiss.

“Morning,” Phil greeted softly when they pulled apart, before he gave into temptation and placed a kiss on the side of Clint’s neck, because it was impossible to stand this close to the archer and not kiss him.

“Morning,” Clint echoed, arching into Phil’s touch slightly.

Finally dragging his attention away from Clint, Phil glanced over to the stove and saw that as well as the French toast Clint was cooking, there was bacon and on the bench, a bowl of fresh berries.  “Breakfast smells good,” he said, before he moved away to lean against the nearby kitchen counter and steal a strawberry.

Clint smirked, before staring pointedly at the stolen coffee mug in Phil’s hand as he blatantly drank Clint’s coffee.  Phil attempted to hide his answering smile, but he didn’t think he did a very good job of it.  “I was hungry,” Clint said.

“Is that so?” Phil said with an arched eyebrow and a smirk of his own, before he took another sip of coffee.

“Uh huh,” Clint said, flipping the last pieces of toast onto a plate.

When he moved to walk past Phil towards Phil’s small kitchen table, Phil reached out to snatch a piece of toast, but Clint yanked the plate out of his reach.  “Who says you’re getting any of this, huh?” he teased.

Phil narrowed his eyes at the blatant challenge, watching as Clint’s eyes glinted defiantly at him.  No matter what happened, Phil hoped that Clint never, ever lost that spark, because not only was it one of the things that made Clint so very good at what he did, but it was one of the things Phil loved about him.  Deciding the only way to get breakfast away from a hungry Clint was to play dirty, Phil reached out to grab Clint by a fistful of his tank and pulled him in for a kiss.  When he finally leaned back again, Clint had a dazed look on his face and Phil was very tempted to just forget about breakfast and drag him back to the bedroom.  He reigned in his impulses because as much as he’d love to do that, they were both starving and really, there was no rush.

He grabbed a piece of French toast to keep his hands occupied and grinned when Clint glared at him.  “Sneaky bastard,” Clint grumbled, but his lips twitched as he fought not to smile.

“So says Hawkeye,” Phil replied dryly.

Rolling his eyes, Clint placed the plate of toast on the table next to the maple syrup, before he grabbed the bacon and the berries, before he sat down and started piling his plate high with food.  With a smile, Phil grabbed another cup of coffee for him, before he joined Clint to eat.  When he finally seemed to have satisfied his growling stomach, Clint settled back to watch Phil as he sipped his coffee, his sharp eyes considering.  Still distracted by the haze of delicious food, Phil looked questioningly at him, before reaching for another piece of toast.  Clint’s lips quirked as he watched Phil continue to eat.  “You’re really hungry this morning,” he said.

“I blame you for that,” Phil said, crunching on a piece of bacon.

Something warm sparkled in Clint’s gaze as he grinned and really, Phil should have known better to say something like that because Clint would just see it as a challenge.  Although, considering the way Clint had been blatantly staring at his chest for the last few minutes over the rim of his coffee cup, maybe they’d always been heading in the direction of the bedroom and Phil had just been too distracted by food and coffee to notice before now.  Phil wasn’t sure he minded.  He watched silently as Clint stood up and walked around the table, before shamelessly straddling Phil’s lap.  Phil’s hands automatically came up to rest on Phil’s hips as Clint slide those amazing arms of his around Phil’s neck.  “Are you done with breakfast, Phil?” Clint asked, smirking down at him.

“I could be persuaded,” Phil replied with a smile against Clint’s lips as Clint leaned down to kiss him.

A few long minutes later, Phil felt Clint muttering a few curses against his mouth as the sound of a ringing phone registered in his hazy thoughts.  Cursing himself, Phil pulled away slightly wondering what he’d done with his phone.  “Can’t you ignore it?” Clint asked, leaning down to try and kiss Phil again.  “We’re on vacation.”

Giving in, Phil kissed Clint and tried to stubbornly ignore the shrill ringing of his phone.  He slid his hands underneath Clint’s tank, tracing the firm muscles of his back and gave a happy hum when his phone went silent.  His hum turned into a low groan as Clint started kissing along his jaw and down his neck.  As if to spite him, a second later his phone started ringing angrily again.  Pulling back, Phil glared around his apartment as he searched for the offending object.  “You’re going to answer that, aren’t you?” Clint grumbled.

“It might be important,” Phil told him, kissing him briefly in apology.  “If not, we’ll have some new volunteers to staff our sub-Arctic base.”

Clint smirked a little at that, before leaning forwards a little and feeling around the bench behind Phil for a moment.  Then, he offered Phil his ringing phone.  Phil grimaced as he brought it to his ear.  “What?” he snapped.

“Hey Cheese,” Nick greeted, sounding as apologetic as he ever got.

“No,” Phil said.  “ _No_.  You promised me, Nick.  Two weeks – two _whole_ weeks – without disasters and SHIELD missions and world crises…”

“I did,” Nick agreed, “and I wasn’t going to call, I swear, but we’ve got a problem and I need my good eye on it.”

Clint was close enough that he could hear both sides of the conversation and he groaned as he dropped his head to Phil’s shoulder.  Phil slid his hand up to card through the hair at the back of his neck comfortingly.  “Fury, you _suck_ ,” Clint muttered.

“What kind of problem?” Phil asked Nick with a sigh, closing his eyes as he let his head fall back against the chair; he already knew that he was going to give up his vacation time to go and help solve whatever it was.

“Tony Stark has been kidnapped,” Nick said.  “In Afghanistan.”

That made Phil’s eyes snap open as he cursed.  “Do we know who…?” he began.

“The Ten Rings, Phil,” Nick interrupted.  “The Ten Rings have him.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Clint cursed with feeling.

“I’ve already got a driver on his way to pick you and Hawkeye up and a quinjet on standby,” Nick said.  “I need this handled delicately, Phil, and you’re the only one I trust to do that.”

“Fine,” Phil said, “but you _owe_ me.”

“I do,” Nick agreed and Phil could hear both the gratitude and relief in his old friend’s voice.  “I promise you, Phil.  You do this and I will find a mission where all you and Barton have to do is sit on a tropical beach for two weeks.”

“Will Natasha be joining us?” Phil asked, his mind already spinning with plans and contingencies.

“No, I’ve got her on something else,” Nick said, “but Sitwell will be waiting for you at the quinjet.”

Phil nodded absently, even though Nick couldn’t see it.  “I’ll call you as soon as we’re on the ground,” he said and hung up.

Clint was watching him with a resigned look, but he also hadn’t shifted out of Phil’s lap yet and Phil took a moment to enjoy the closeness.  “Duty calls, huh?” Clint said.

“It does,” Phil said with a sigh; duty was always calling.  “Shall we go and save the world again?” he asked resignedly.

“If it’s with you, Phil,” Clint said, punctuating his words with a kiss.  “ _Always_.”

THE END


End file.
